


a turn of the earth

by mishcollin



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alteration of s10 lore, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Canon Divergence, DCBB 2015, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2015, Hand Jobs, Homophobic Language, M/M, POV Dean Winchester, Pining Dean, Preseries Dean, Rimming, Slow Burn, Time Travel, god these tags are a blast, mentions of dean/other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-29 18:44:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 95,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5138552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mishcollin/pseuds/mishcollin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean’s your typical half-orphaned, monster-killing 22-year-old until a trenchcoated stranger crashes into his back windshield one September night, claiming he’s an angel that knows him from the future and that he’s on the run.</p><p>Frigging fantastic.</p><p>(Or, in which Castiel gets stuck in Dean’s timeline preseries and Dean kind of hates it—until he doesn’t.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [ **ART MASTERPOST** ](http://brofisting.tumblr.com/post/132334858143/a-turn-of-the-earth-dcbb-2015-written-by) 
> 
> Here's my Academy speech: so it's been a bit of a grueling journey for me writing and editing a project as long and intensive as this one, given I've been ~~slaving~~ working on it since March, and it's hands-down twice the length or scope of anything I've written for fandom. But I feel semi-accomplished to be on the other end of it, so emotionz. It's sort of been my white whale fic in the back of my mind where I've always wanted to write it but never thought I could, so. thanks @god
> 
> Some acknowledgements to make: my multiple ever-tolerant betas and readers Maja, [Nicole](http://www.saltyfeathers.tumblr.com), [Emilia](http://www.dtkrushnics.tumblr.com), [Michelle](http://www.captainshakespear.tumblr.com), [Charlotte](http://www.casfallsinlove.tumblr.com) and [Vee](http://www.joanwatson.tumblr.com). Thank you for your kind constructive criticism, your time, your texts of endless moral support and your death threats alike. I as always have you guys wholly to thank for talking me off ledges.
> 
> Thanks also to my lovely artist [Aimee](http://www.brofisting.tumblr.com) and your incredible work and endless patience with my loose interpretation of deadlines. It's been really great getting to know you and getting to work closely with you!!!
> 
> You can find me on tumblr [here](http://www.mishcollin.tumblr.com) and you can reblog the fic post [here](http://mishcollin.tumblr.com/post/132482624092/a-turn-of-the-earth-by-mishcollin-art-by). <3

* * *

** **

**September 18, 2001**

            Dean’s minding his own business when something, quite literally, falls from the heavens and crashes into his back windshield.

            He’s on the phone with Bobby when it happens, something about a revenant case in Minnesota, impatiently answering questions with, “No, I haven't heard from Dad. Why the hell would he tell me where he is—does he ever? The dude's basically the Boo Radley of—”

            That's when it happens: the loud, splintering _crack_ of glass that ricochets behind him and the corresponding jolt that makes the whole car frame shudder. Dean shouts and swerves, slamming the brakes so hard that they groan in protest. The tires skid against the highway so that he fishtails toward the shoulder of the road before the car pulls to a juddering stop.

            For a stunned moment, all he can hear is the ticking of the Impala's engine, his own shocked breathing, and Bobby's tinny voice going, "Dean? _Dean?_ " from where the cellphone had gotten cast into the shotgun seat.

            Dean throws the car in park and swivels in disbelief to stare at the giant, spiderwebbing crack that fractures the entire back windshield. He stares some more before he grapples for the cellphone and chokes out, "I'll call you back," and scrambles out of the car.

            He can barely see the road, other than the red cast of the taillights, and a soft mist has started up, curling in thin clouds around the headlights.

            Dean, still shaking with adrenaline, takes two uncertain steps toward the crumpled shape on the concrete, a dark and formless mass that seems to blend in with the rest of the road.

            “Oh my God,” he hears himself say. “I killed someone.”

            After a few more seconds of shocked hesitation, he stumbles toward the shape and crouches down to take a closer look. It's definitely a man; in the dim light, he can parse out a wet beige coat and dark hair, and he's curled in on himself, eyes closed, unmoving. There's dark wet liquid on the concrete, and in the neon red of the Impala's backlights, he can't make out if it's rainwater or blood.

            Dean slides one trembling hand under the man's nose to feel for his breath, and when that fails, he presses two fingers to the pulse-point on his neck. To his shock, he finds a heartbeat easily.

            "Dude, you should be dead," he whispers, pulling his hand back. "How are you not dead?"

            The man suddenly stirs, a wet cough rattling from him, before he attempts slowly to move.

            "Hey," Dean says, cupping a hand on the guy's shoulder. "Don't move, okay? You took a pretty hard fall."

            The man's head lolls for a moment, as though he's trying to relearn basic movement, before he blinks dazedly and groans.

            "Hospital," Dean says dumbly, at a total loss for what to do. "I'll find the nearest—"

            "Don't," the guy says in a deep, crackling voice. "No hospitals."

            "Dude, you literally _hit_ a car." The fuck had he come from, anyway?

            The man tries to stand, and Dean grabs at his elbows to help. He thinks being vertical is probably a shitty idea at this point, but the guy seems determined, hooking his fingers into Dean's sleeves and experimentally shifting his legs.

            Dean helps him stand, where he takes up a shaky, unbalanced footing and leans on Dean heavily for support.

            "You gonna explain how you uh, tripped on my car?" Dean asks, his voice way higher-pitched in his distress than he'd like it to be, and the man seems to register something, refocusing his gaze and squinting at Dean's face. Dean watches the softening change in his expression—recognition, then relief.

            "Dean," the guy breathes out, and Dean goes stiff and recoils, all the alarm bells sounding in his head.

            "Who the hell are you?"

            The guy seems like he's struggling to form an answer but he, conveniently, passes out, his legs buckling under him as he falls forward into Dean. Dean _oofs_ and catches his weight, still seeing a stubborn red flag waving behind his eyes because hello, total strangers knowing his name and body-checking his car is a weird day even for him.

            For a long moment he just stands there like a dumbass in the middle of the empty highway, still supporting the guy's deadweight by his elbows, and he thinks about his life choices. He could leave the guy here for dead—that's probably what Dad would do. The dude's clearly not human, given most of the bones in his body seem to be intact, and therefore he's some kind of threat. He could take the guy to a motel and patch him up, try to glean information from him—that's what Sam would do. The most reasonable thing would be to drop him at a hospital and let doctors deal with him, but the guy had been emphatic about no hospitals.

            Maybe he's an escaped convict or something.

            Dean sighs, repositions his grip, and hauls the man as gently as he can toward the backseat of the Impala. He lays the guy out as comfortably as he can on the leather seat and for a few more moments just stares at the guy's outstretched form, debating some more, before he makes up his mind, shuts the back door, and clambers back into the driver's seat.

            It's not like his dad has to know.

\---

            Dean gets some appropriately concerned looks from the motel staff on the way in, given the mystery guy is down for the count and drooling blood all over the carpets, which he waves off with excuses about a bar fight. He manages to half-pull, half-drag the man down the hallway into his room before he dumps him unceremoniously on the bed.

            Dean takes close stock, now that he can see every inch of the guy in the proper light. He's probably mid-thirties, maybe older or younger; it's hard to tell when he's knocked out. He's dressed like some sort of churchgoer, black dress pants, black shoes, white undershirt, blue striped tie, wet trenchcoat. Stubbled jaw, dark hair, long eyelashes. He's still got a thread of dry blood from the corner of his lips that trails to his lower jaw.

            "Alright," Dean says under his breath to the unconscious stranger. "Let's figure out what you are."

            Salt warrants no reaction, when applied—neither does his dad's flask of holy water or the small cut to the man's fingertip with a silver knife.

            So nothing that _he_ knows of, then. Maybe Dad would know? Dad always knows this crap.

            Dean's still pretty hung up—on the crashing into his car from nowhere, yeah, but more on that this guy had said his name with such…familiarity. He's pretty damn sure he's never seen him before, which means maybe he's a friend of Dad or Sam’s, but even that doesn't sit with him quite right. He can't shake the way the guy had looked at him, like…almost like, _Thank God. Dean._

Dean shakes off the thought and goes about the next natural course of action, which is confiscating all the guy's stuff. He starts by clinically patting down the man’s shoulders, flitting to the bulge of his front pants pocket and fishing out a plain, black leather wallet. He slips it into his back pocket for later scrutiny and runs his hands along the guy's arms, frowning in surprise when he feels something hard and pointed along his sleeve. Further investigation reveals a long, sharp silver blade that Dean's never seen before, but it looks valuable and important.

            "We'll see if you get this back," he mutters to the stranger, filing it away in the back of his waistband, before he pats down the man's trenchcoat pockets.

            There's a slight jangle at the touch, and Dean's search results in a set of car keys. He's about to toss them to the side in disinterest, but stops short when the light catches them, and he stares. And stares some more.

            No fucking way.

            Dean shoves the handful of keys under the lamplight just to be sure, carding through the individual keys on the ring, before he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out an identical set, holding them side by side just to be sure once, twice, and a third time.

            Surely there's a reason why this guy has a set of keys to the Impala when Dean knows for damn sure his dad only had one set made. Surely there's a rational, explicable, _reasonable_ reason for that.

            Dean goes for the wallet in his back pocket, dropping both sets of keys on the bedside table with a clatter. He thumbs it open, squinting at the driver's license in the plastic holder.

            _James Novak, Pontiac, IL, 61764. DOB 7-10-1973._

Dean thinks the guy looks a little old for 28, but maybe he's wrong.

            "What the _hell_ ," he mutters to himself out loud. As if this could get weirder.

            He searches the rest of the wallet, but there’s nothing else except for about $50 in cash, two fake credit cards, and a crumpled receipt.

            The man stirs in his periphery vision with a soft groan, one hand flying up to cup his temple, and Dean goes tense, the knife in his back waistband suddenly seeming much heavier.

            "Good, you're awake," Dean says in an even, flat voice when the man opens his eyes, ignoring the nervous flutter his stomach gives when the guy swivels his head to stare at him. "I've got some questions that should be easy to answer, if you cooperate."

            The man tries to sit up but fails, sinking back into the pillows with a groan, before he casts his eyes around the room dazedly. "Where are we?"

            "Motel room. You said no hospital, so."

            "Thank you," the man says, massaging his jaw tenderly and rubbing at the dried blood.

            "First questions first," Dean says, sliding the knife out of his waistband so that it catches the light sharply. The man goes curiously still, staring at Dean with a wide-eyed, bewildered expression. "How do you know my name?"

            "What year is it?" the man asks, apropos of nothing, and Dean blinks, taken off-guard.

            "Is that supposed to be funny?" he snaps, and the man's bemused blue eyes fasten on him again.

            "2001," the man says, like he's confirming something to himself. He blinks at Dean as though seeing him in a new light, then says in surprise, "You're just a child."

            Dean bristles, insulted. "Dude, I'm 22."

            "Hmm," the man says, narrowing his eyes, still focused on Dean with uncanny precision. It makes Dean's skin crawl, like the guy can see right through him to his bones. "I see I have some explaining to do."

            "Yeah, no shit."

            "Would you believe me if I said I was a friend?" the man says.

            "I've never seen you before in my life," Dean says with a scoff. "Usually friends require like, I don't know, an actual past conversation, or something. So either you start explaining, or I start in with the knife."

            "You won't," the man says kindly. "You're not truly a torturer, Dean."

            "Shut up," Dean says, waving the knife in a circular motion. "Quit acting like you know me."

            The man half-raises both of his hands in defeat, palms faced forward.

            "Let's start again. Who the hell are you?"

            The guy rubs a hand over his face wearily. "My name is Castiel."

            "Alright, fine. _What_ the hell are you?"

            Something like a grimace twists the man's features. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

            "Try me."

            "No, truly. You won't."

            "Okay, then explain how it is, in a way that I _will_ believe you, that you hit my car when I was going 75 and you're somehow not a pile of slop on the roadside right now. Because that definitely ain't human. Oh, and while you're at it, explain why you have _these—_ " the last word is hissed as Dean reaches for the Impala's keys and jangles them loudly for effect, "in your coat pocket."

            "You gave them to me," Castiel says, slowly and with infinite patience.

            "Yeah, right."

            "What other explanation would you accept?"

            "I wouldn't just _hand over_ the keys of the Impala to a random stranger," Dean says angrily. "You'd have to be…"

            Castiel raises his eyebrows when Dean trails off, and he fills in, questioningly, "Family?"

            "Yeah, exactly."

            Castiel's expression suddenly contorts into a wince, and he surges up and gasps in pain, his hands clutching around his ribs.

            "You okay?" Dean asks gruffly, trying not to look concerned. He keeps the knife out in front of him in case it's an act.

            "Fine," Castiel wheezes, his pained expression arguing otherwise. "My body is…adjusting."

            "Adjusting to _what_?" So far Dean's got more questions than when he'd started, which was _not_ how he optimally saw this going.

            "Travel," Castiel says, with a wryness that leads Dean to believe he's missing out on some private joke.

            "Look," Dean says shortly, taking an aggressive step forward, to which Castiel appears stoically unmoved. "I'm not in the mood for games, alright? You've got my name and the keys to my car, which is more than most people got, so I want answers from you. How much do you know about me and my family?"

            "I know a fair amount about both you and Sam," Castiel says. "The others, I'm admittedly less familiar with."

            "You know what we do?"

            "You're a hunter," Castiel says in a mild voice, "born in Lawrence, Kansas in 1979."

            "Alright," Dean says through gritted teeth. "So you're a stalker, perfect. Still doesn't explain how you've got my keys."

            "Dean, how open-minded are you to the idea of time-travel?" Castiel asks, tilting his head and eyeing a pattern on the ceiling with apparent interest.

            Dean barks out one short, disbelieving laugh and lowers the knife. "You've gotta be fucking kidding me."

            "I figured as much," Castiel says. "Well, regardless of whether you believe it or not, that's how I ended up on the road. Trust me when I say it wasn't my intention or my desire to be here."

            "So, what, you expect me to believe that you're—"

            "Yes," Castiel says, pinning him with that unnerving, steady gaze again, so assured that Dean finds his resolve nearly wavering. "I am a friend of yours, but not in this year. Not for some time yet."

            "You honestly think I'm gonna buy your _Back to the Future_ bullshit? Buddy, try a little harder maybe."

            "Check the receipt," Castiel says, in that maddeningly calm voice again.

            "What?"

            "I know you went through my wallet. Check the receipt."

            Dean makes a face at him, which is peacefully received, before he snatches the wallet off the bedside table. He flips it open again and pulls out the receipt, smoothing out the crinkles so he can read the faded print.

            It's from Walgreens, and the purchase date reads February 13, 2015.

            No fucking way, Dean thinks to himself again, and he doesn't realize he's said it aloud until Castiel replies, "I know it seems impossible to believe, but you also hunt the impossible on a near-daily basis. Is it so far outside of your realm of rationality?"

            "You could've printed this or something," Dean grumbles, still searching for a loophole.

            "I don't know how to use a printer," Castiel answers, exasperated.

            "Okay, fine, let's say you time-traveled, or whatever. Humans can't time-travel, even in the future, so if you'd _enlighten_ me—"

            "I'm an angel," Castiel says, pursing his lips into a flat, white line. "Of the Lord."

            Dean smiles demurely. "Right. And I'm the fucking tooth fairy."

            " _That_ I did not know," Castiel says, totally solemn, and Dean scowls at him.

            Two loud knocks rap on the door, and after a moment of tense silence, a woman's voice questions, "Room service?"

            Dean looks to the closed door, then back at Castiel, whose bright eyes are still locked on him, unwavering.

            "Don't move," Dean warns, pointing the knife at him, and Castiel sighs.

            Dean hides the knife before he moves toward the door and swings it open, taking in the smaller, aproned woman on the other side. "Excuse me, miss, this isn't the best time."

            "I just brought fresh towels," the woman says, arching an irritated eyebrow. "Two, right?"

            "Yeah," Dean begins, "I guess—" but when he turns back toward the bed, Castiel's gone, only rumpled white sheets in his place.

\---

            "Pick up, pick up, pick up," Dean mutters to himself, his cheek pressed to the sticky pay-phone receiver. He digs his thumbnail into the grooves of the metal phone-cord as he waits out the drone of the dial tone. "Dammit, Sam—"

            "Hello?" comes Sam's breathless voice on the other end, high-pitched and jagged like he's just come off a marathon run.

            "Did I interrupt something?"

            " _Dean?_ What number is this?"

            "It's a payphone, alright? I've only got a couple minutes. Look, I'm…I'm kind of hunting something, and I need to know if you've heard of it. Think you can do that?"

            "On a hunt? By yourself?" Sam asks, sounding shocked. "Does Dad know?"

            "Not yet."

            "What are you hunting? Are you in trouble? Is everything okay—"

            "I'm fine, Sam, seriously. I just need to know if the name rings a bell with anything we've hunted before."

            "Alright," Sam says, inhaling deeply like he's catching his breath. "Shoot."

            "It's called, uh…Castiel?"

            "A Castiel?" Sam echoes, and Dean can practically see his nose wrinkling in confusion. "No, pretty sure I've never heard of it."

            "You sure?"

            "I'm positive. What's this about, Dean?"

            "Just following a lead. It’s probably nothing. I, uh…how's…you know, college life?"

            Sam pauses for one, two, three seconds, and Dean holds his breath with an anticipatory wince, waiting. They don't really do this—call to talk to each other about stuff outside hunting-related shit, that is.

            "It's…good, I guess," comes Sam's voice then, guarded. "I mean, I'm taking like eighteen hours, which sucks ass, plus I'm working two jobs but—yeah, it's good. What've you been up to? Still running around with Dad's crowd?"

            "No," Dean says quietly, and his voice cracks, so he clears his throat. "I'm fine. You know how it is."

            "Yeah," Sam says. "I do. Look, just call me if you need anything else, okay? Or if you get into trouble."

            "Sure thing, Sammy."

            The call runs out then, and Dean curses under his breath and digs into his pocket for another handful of quarters. He dials his dad's number and gets the voicemail with the usual spiel, _call Dean with your shit because he's basically my secretary, blah blah_ (Dean's not bitter), but he figures his dad is playing hard-to-get as usual and tries again.

            Sure enough, his dad picks up. Predictable.

            "Who is this?"

            "Dad? It's me. It's…Dean."

            "Dean," John says, sounding just as suspicious as Sam had. _Can't a guy just call to say hello?_ Dean thinks, irritated. "What do you need? Everything alright?"

            "Yeah, I just. I think I might be following a lead on something big."

            "Big?" John's voice sharpens, avid when he speaks again. "Big as in—"

            "No, not the thing that killed Mom," Dean says, swallowing with difficulty. "Different kind of big."

            The line goes flat with static silence for a moment, which Dean imagines is filled with his dad looking disapproving.

            "It's this thing I ran into called Castiel. You heard of it?"

            "No," John says. "You sure it wasn't human?"

            "Yeah, totally sure. Dad, he…"

            "What?"

            "He said he was an angel," Dean says, hating the way his voice tilts up questioningly at the end. "You don't think…I mean, is it possible that—"

            "Son, you know angels aren't real," John says, incredulous. "Come on now."

            "I know," Dean answers, his throat uncomfortably tight and his face a shade hotter, like he always gets when his dad gets on him. "I know, but…never too careful, you know?"

            "Yeah," John agrees. "It was probably lying to mess with you, maybe some sort of deluded angry spirit. Do you need my help with it? Do I need to meet you somewhere?"

            "Nah, it's fine, honestly. It's probably nothing. I can take care of it."

            "Good. You talk to Sam recently?"

            "Yeah, just got off the phone with him."

            "How is he?"

            "He's…fine," Dean says.

            "Good, good. Well, call me if you need anything, okay? Be careful. Take care of that car."

            "Yes, sir."

            John hangs up, and Dean spends a good minute listening to the singular string of dial tone, monotone in his ears until it buzzes. He sighs out slowly before plugging in some of his remaining change to call Bobby.

            He picks up first ring. "Real considerate that you called back, boy."

            That's definite sarcasm.

            "Bobby—"

            "You realize you damn near gave me a heart attack? _Don't_ do that shit again, you hear?"

            " _Yeah_ , I know, I know, Jesus—"

            "Don't you 'Jesus' me—"

            "Bobby," Dean yells into the receiver, his remaining patience shriveling up. "I've got like two minutes and I really need your help, okay?"

            Dean's met with stony silence for a full four seconds before Bobby asks, dryly, "And how may I assist you?"

            "I'm hunting something and it's big. I need to know if you can dig up anything on him."

            "By yourself? What is it?" Bobby asks, sounding reluctantly curious.

            "It's called Castiel. He—it—said it was an angel, but that's obviously crock so I need you to see if the name comes up anywhere. Can you do that? Please?"

            "Yeah, I'll see what I can do," Bobby says. "Everything alright, Dean?"

            "Fine, just…" Dean breaks out into a helpless laugh, the chill off the wind sending goosebumps rippling up his bare arms. "I just don't know what the hell I'm getting myself into. This guy knew my name, Bobby—knew me _and_ Sam, my birthday, where I was born. He even had a copy of my damn car keys. Dad and Sam aren't pulling through on this so I just…I really need your help, alright?"

            " _John Winchester_ dropped the ball on something?" Bobby says snidely.

            "Bobby."

            Bobby sighs. "Fine," he says, "I'll call you back in a bit."

            "Thanks, Bobby, seriously."

            Dean hooks the phone back on the receiver and flips up his coat collar against the rain, starting the slow trudge back to the motel, loose change jangling in his pockets with his steps. The only sound besides that on the quiet street is his shoes crackling against the wet pavement, and he finds himself lost in thought—said thoughts mainly satelliting around Castiel.

            Dean's doing, rationally, what he needs to do, which is to look at this like a hunt. Castiel is a creature of at least some substantial power with a formidable amount of knowledge about Dean and his family, and he's not human, even if he looks like it. He's not human, so he's got to go. No question, no doubts.

            He can't shake the stupid, fond way Castiel had looked at him on the highway, his eyes lidded half-consciously but still that bright recognition there, like he'd expected Dean to embrace him back.

            He stops at a small gas station for a six-pack, and when he gets back to the motel, he shakes off his wet jacket and checks his cellphone. Two missed calls from Bobby.

            Dean punches the call button and when Bobby picks up, he asks, a little too eagerly, "Yeah?"

            "Got something."

            "Awesome." Dean reaches across the table and cracks open one of the beers, tilting his head back to take a long swig.

            "One of the books I've got has a detailed index of seraphim and cherubim. I've seen the names 'Castiel' and 'Cassiel' crop up a few times as lower-ranking seraphs. Technically the angel of Thursday, but I don't know if that's really—"

            " _Angel?_ " Dean repeats skeptically. "Bobby, you can't be serious."

            "You got something better?" Bobby snaps through the line. "I ain't rulin' anything out here, and neither should you."

            "Dad said—"

            "I don't care what your dad said. There's boatloads of lore on angel mythology, just as much as on demons and ghosts and all the rest."

            "Yeah. That completely explains why a hunter's never run across one, right?"

            "Except for maybe you, if you weren't so thick-headed about it," Bobby says, exasperated. There's a rustle on the other end, like he's rifling through more pages.

            "Whatever," Dean says, before an idea occurs to him. "Hey, you see anything about summoning spells?"

            "That sounds like a stupid idea waiting to happen."

            "Kinda my style, Bobby."

            "Moron," Bobby grumbles, his voice muffled as the phone gets shifted against something that sounds like fabric, and Dean grins and takes another drink. "Nothing here, but I’ll see if I can dig up more stuff tonight and I'll send some files your way. Good?"

            "Yeah," Dean says, picking at the beer label with his thumbnail. "Sounds good."

            "And Dean? Stay out of trouble."

            "Sure thing," Dean says with an eye roll, and hangs up.

\--

**October 10, 2001**

"Coffee, black please, and some fries," Dean says as he shrugs off his jacket and slides into a red laminate booth. The waitress nods and heads off as Dean settles in, pulling out a file that he's aptly named "ANGEL SHIT." For a moment he thumbs at the corner of the folder before he flips it open, spreading out the various pages on the table and bending forward to pore through them. Something about holy oil, ring of fire, blah blah, nothing actually attainable, at least on this side of the globe. Bobby'd been patient enough to fax the files to him, and while there's a ton of stuff on angels, like he'd said, there's probably only a solid three pages on Castiel in particular.

            It's been about three weeks since Castiel hit his car, and it's been the same amount of time that Dean's gotten a lead on anything. He wouldn't call it an _obsession_ , but it's definitely _some_ kind of determined fixation on getting an explanation. The thing about the Impala keys still bugs the shit out of him, just on principle.

            A mug of coffee plunks down beside him and Dean says, absently, "Thanks, sweetheart," before he glances up to wink at the waitress—then promptly starts like he's been shocked.

            It's Castiel, whose dark hair is mussed and windswept, his tie flipped backwards and askew. There's a small branch tangled in his hair.

            "Hello, Dean," he says, sounding out of breath.

            Dean scrambles up from the booth, caught somewhere between shock that the guy is actually _here_ in front of him and the sudden urge to trap him for answers before he can get away again.

            "You," Dean says. "I—I've been—"

            Castiel looks at him curiously, his blue eyes bright in the slant of light through the diner windows.

            "I've been hunting you," Dean finishes lamely, his mouth going dry at the admission.

            "Have you?" Castiel asks, bemused. "How long has it been since I've seen you?"

            "Like, three weeks."

            "For me it's been three seconds," Castiel explains. "I can't control when I travel, when I come or go or…how I land." His eyes shift pointedly toward the window, refocusing on something outside. "It's very frustrating."

            "You've got a twig in your hair."

            "Yes, I landed in a bush."

            Dean drums his fingers on the table nervously, suddenly at a complete loss for what to say or do. For days he's been imagining confronting Castiel and now, when the opportunity’s actually here, he seems just as innocuous and un-huntable as when they first met.

            Castiel slides into the booth without request or preamble, his gaze refastening sharply on the case file spread out. "May I?"

            "Uh," Dean says, still standing.

            Castiel picks up four of the pages, his brow creasing in a small frown as he leafs through them slowly. "This is thorough research," he says after a moment. "It's only about 40% correct, but angels are notoriously evasive so the effort is impressive."

            "Still clinging onto that angel crap, eh?" Dean says, mustering up some lost bravado as he slides back into the booth.

            "Yes," Castiel says idly, his eyes still skimming the text on the printouts. "For future reference, I'm actually a high-ranking seraph, or I was. I should also clarify that I'm not the same angel as Cassiel. I imagine you wouldn't find their company…pleasant, anyway."

            "Good thing I didn't try to summon you then," Dean says, playing along. "Because that was in the cards for awhile."

            A strange look crosses Castiel's face, and his eyes flicker up to meet Dean's from under his eyebrows. "That would be imprudent."

            "Why?"

            Castiel returns to the files, his face a mask of neutrality again. "Because you would be summoning me from the year 2001, and I can guarantee you won't like the results of that. I've undergone certain…changes since then, and I also likely wouldn't be in this form, so I doubt you'd recognize me. We would also probably try to kill each other, given your unchecked hostility and my former disposition, which would be extremely counterintuitive for later events."

            A batch of fries is set down between them. Dean's just staring at Castiel.

            "Okay," Dean says, after a few moments of silence, in which Castiel appears to be absorbed in thought. "Okay, let's say I believe you for a second. Hypothetically."

            "Hypothetically," Castiel agrees, "of course."

            "If we're really friends from the future or whatever, then tell me something about myself only I could've told you," Dean says, leaning forward over the fries in a challenge.

            Castiel doesn't answer for a moment, still shuffling through the papers, and Dean thinks he's stumped him before he starts to speak. "Your favorite breakfast cereal as a child was Lucky Charms. Your father caught you smoking a cigarette once when you were fifteen and made you smoke the whole pack—you threw up. You have a crescent-shaped birthmark on your upper thigh, and one of your back teeth is chipped from a bar-fight you got into at age eighteen." The fucker's not even looking up from the papers. "You fix cars when you feel like you can't fix anything else. Your knowledge of old westerns is practically unparalleled. You carry a picture of your mother with you. And you can't sleep without a gun under your pillow."

            Dean stares.

            "Dude, seriously," he says hoarsely. "Who the hell are you?"

            "I told you, I'm a friend."

            "That's a little freaky for just a friend."

            "Close friend," Castiel amends, picking up a fry and chomping down on it. "And I assume I don't need to remind you of Rhonda Hurley."

            "I _told_ you about that?" Dean says in horror, feeling acutely the hot rush of blood to his face. Castiel's eyes track the blush with apparent amusement, his lips pressing into a line to hide it.

            "Among other things."

            "Okay, how do I know you're not just a freaky voyeur? Or like a Vulcan mind-reader?"

            "You don't," Castiel says, reaching across the table to scoot Dean's coffee toward himself. "But I don't suspect you really believe that."

            Dean huffs. "You're really annoying, you know that?"

            "So you've told me," Castiel says, raising the mug to take a long sip.

            "Okay," Dean says again to process it, snagging his coffee back from Castiel the moment he sets it down. "Okay, say you're actually from the future. Fine. What are you doing _here_? Why me?"

            Castiel's mouth, which had been tilted up in a soft smile, thins out into something taut and uncomfortable.

            "For some reason," he says slowly after a moment, leaning forward and interlacing his hands on the table, "my energy is attached to your timeline. I've tried deviating to other points in time, but it seems I'm following the trajectory of your…personal history."

            "So what, you're just gonna keep randomly popping in on my life at weird times? No warning or anything?"

            "Most likely," Castiel says, resting his chin on his knuckles, "unless I can somehow learn to control it."

            "And you're trying to get back to your own time," Dean guesses, narrowing his eyes. Castiel's gaze flits to him quickly, then away, just a slight tell but one all the same.

            "You're running from something," Dean says, realization dawning on him. Castiel doesn't look at him, but his jaw gives a soft tick. "That's it, isn't it? Someone's chasing you down?"

            "Not someone," Castiel says quietly. "Something."

            "What is it?"

            "It's a lot to explain," Castiel replies. "Another time."

            Dean snorts, folding his arms and leaning back in the booth. "Right. Another time. Which could be either tomorrow or in ten years, right?"

            Castiel's mouth tightens again unhappily, but he doesn't answer, confirming Dean's question.

            "Alright," Dean says again, sensing it's time for a subject change. "If you're really from the future, then tell me something cool about myself."

            "What?" Castiel asks, looking startled, his gaze finding Dean's again.

            "Y'know, spoil something. Do I do anything cool?" Dean waggles his eyebrows and grins. "You know, go to the Grand Canyon, get a hot girl, invent some new cool ghost technology? I bet I'm still hunting, right? Dad said I could maybe go to school later on, but I don't really mind if I don't go. Kinda always wanted to be an MLB player, though."

            Castiel is looking at him sideways with a somewhat stricken expression, heavy and almost sad, and Dean's unsettled by it, for some reason.

            "What?" he asks, frowning.

            "Nothing," Castiel says, dropping his gaze again to his folded hands. "Perhaps that's not the best idea."

            Dean swallows, feeling his chest tighten uncomfortably. "Is it bad? Like, does bad stuff happen to me? Is that why you won't tell me?"

            "No," Castiel says carefully. "I've already upset your timeline significantly just by being here. I fear telling you future details will convolute it further."

            _Yeah, right,_ Dean thinks, still feeling unsettled, but he senses Castiel doesn't want to talk about it so he says, lightly, "Okay, then. Future friend. Is there anything you _are_ allowed to tell me?"

            Castiel hesitates, his teeth worrying his lower lip, and Dean finds himself strangely fixated on the movement.

            "Depends on what you want to know," Castiel says eventually, looking up at Dean through his dark lashes, before he drops eye contact and goes stealthily for Dean's coffee again.

            Dean smacks his hand away. "Hey, get your own. You could have angel herpes for all I know."

            "So you do believe me, then?" Castiel asks, a smile in his voice.

            "Psh. No." Dean stubbornly leans back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest again, his foot tapping restlessly on the floor. "You don't act like an angel even a little bit, you know that? Like, if I had to imagine what an angel was, you'd be the opposite."

            "Is that so?" Castiel says, his head canting sideways, eyes narrowed. Dean, again, gets the sense that he's being teased.

            "Uh, yeah," Dean replies, arching his eyebrows. "Sorry that the mental image I have of 'heavenly warrior' isn't a short guy with bad bedhead who drinks coffee and steals french fries."

            Castiel frowns and leafs careful fingers through his hair, leaving it messier than it was before. "I don't have to eat," he says, trying unsuccessfully to mat his hair down. "Or drink. It can be quite unpleasant, actually. I choose to."

            "Okay, sure. And how is it exactly that we're friends? You're a little…weird, no offense."

            Castiel hesitates before answering, propping his chin gently on his knuckles again, and okay, Dean thinks. He's a little endearing. A little bit. In his snarky weirdness.

            "We've been through much together," Castiel says, the cadence of his words halting now. "Our relationship is…a little difficult to explain, and would take considerably longer to explain than I'd wager I have at the moment."

            "Your relationship with future me, you mean," Dean clarifies, looking at Castiel reproachfully over the rim of his mug. He gives the headshake version of a finger wagging. "Don't go getting any ideas about us being friends. I don't trust you yet."

            "What would you consider me, then?" Castiel asks. "An enemy?"

            Dean thinks that over for a moment, staring down at his coffee as he swirls it in the cup. "Someone who I'm not actively trying to kill, but also not an ally," is what he eventually comes up with.

            "I'll take what I can get," Castiel says dryly.

            The waitress stops by and wordlessly refills Dean's coffee, casting Castiel an odd look before she saunters off. When Dean looks back to Castiel appraisingly, he double-takes when he sees Castiel's hand is…literally glowing.

            "Uh," Dean says blankly. "Dude."

            Castiel blinks at him in confusion, his fingers still laced together, and he looks down to follow Dean's gaze.

            "Ah," he says, mildly. "That appears to be my cue."

            "What _is_ that?" Dean asks, engrossed as the gold light splinters out from a small patch of the tan skin on Castiel's hand, dappling the plastic tabletop with light.

            "It's temporal energy," Castiel says, standing swiftly, stiffly. "If you'll excuse me."

            "What, you're just taking off?" Dean asks in disbelief as Castiel bends his knees to slide out of the booth. "When the hell are you going to be back?"

            Castiel casts him a pained glance over his shoulder, a small patch of light fracturing out from under his right eyelid. "I don't know. I can't be sure. I'm sorry, Dean. I hope, truly, to see you soon."

            And he just…walks out. Dean propels himself halfway out of his seat, craning his neck to see if he can see Castiel's departure through the window, but the dude's definitely gone.

            Dean swears loudly, turning to stare at the spot where Castiel had just been. There are still some fry crumbs and a few grains of salt in his vacant spot; there are traces of coffee residue from two mouths on the rim of his mug. So it hadn't been a fever dream, at least.

            Dean yanks out his cellphone, which is slowly but surely inching toward scrap metal material, and punches in Bobby's number by heart.

            "'Yello," Bobby answers, sounding half-distracted when he picks up.

            "It was him," Dean launches in without preamble. "Cas was just here."

            "Who?" Bobby says skeptically, his voice growing closer to the phone.

            "Castiel, you know, the angel."

            "Are we pet-naming him now?"

            "What? No, shut up. Are you listening to me? He was just here, in front of me—"

            "Well, d'ja kill him while you still could?"

            Dean deflates at that, drumming his fingers on the tabletop, watching the glint of his silver ring in the sunlight. "Uh, no. I…."

            "You've got his blade, don't you? You could've taken him out, Dean."

            "I…." Dean grimaces, runs his tongue over his teeth. He tries again. "I couldn't. He's just…I dunno, a regular dude. Like a geeky, harmless dude. I just didn't have it in me to knife him."

            "A geeky dude who happens to maybe be a celestial warrior of the cosmos," comes Bobby's voice, all sarcasm crackling with static.

            "I'm tellin' you, Bobby, I don't think he's trying to hurt me. Whoever I am in the future, he likes me."

            "God help us," Bobby mutters to himself.

            “Do you think I should try to trap him and question him next time?” Dean asks uncertainly. “I…I don’t really know what to do here.”

            “I’m not sure I’ve got advice to give,” Bobby says with a heavy sigh. “I’ve really got no clue exactly what it is we’re up against. Just…be careful, you hear me? We don’t know what this thing is. The last thing we want to do is piss it off and blow up a hemisphere or somethin’.”

            “Okay. I’ll…I’ll call you back. Thanks, Bobby,” Dean says, and hangs up. For several moments after, he stays in the booth and drums his cellphone thoughtfully against the tabletop, staring at the place where Castiel had been as he wonders, again, just what the hell he’s gotten himself into.


	2. Chapter 2

**February 8, 2002**

"Goddammit," Dean hisses through his teeth as his flashlight flickers. He thwacks it twice with the heel of his palm, cursing lowly again when the light bounces then goes out.

            For a moment, he remains frozen in place, breathing quietly into the darkness of the warehouse—seriously, always with the monsters and their frigging creepy dank warehouses—too freaked to move. He takes a hesitant step forward, broken glass popping underneath his shoes, and he winces and freezes. He casts a short glance to the roof window, where the moon is a small white wedge on the horizon. He's got some time, at least.

            Dean thinks, mutinously, that he could be back at the motel with a six-pack and the Jayhawks game right now, but Bobby's guy for this case had fallen through last minute and of course, Dean's the handy backup. Which he doesn't mind picking up milk-runs for Bobby every so often—sometimes when he's going stir-crazy, he actually enjoys it—but Dean, just. Hates werewolves, seriously. Creepy hairy fucks with dog breath. He hasn’t hunted one since he was a kid, and definitely never by himself without his dad’s help.

            There's a soft shuffle of movement, a quiet snore, and Dean gives a small jump; the glass grinds under his shoes as he releases the safety on the gun. It's a soft, almost inaudible click in the dark, but it's tailed almost immediately by a faint growl that sends the hairs on the back of Dean's neck right up.

            Yeah, fine, so maybe Dean hates hunting alone.

            But he's not a chicken-shit. He can do this without Dad, or Sam, or Bobby. Dad had always said he had a natural knack for hunting, anyway.

            He waits in the dark, breath bated. Every nerve feels strung out and electric with adrenaline as he listens for movement, for a breath, a pulse. Nothing.

            He moves past the glass and creeps forward, craning his neck to where he can see a curled, sleeping figure illuminated faintly by a shaft of moonlight. Dean's hands are trembling on the gun, which he hates—he hates that tremor that he gets when he hunts by himself, the pressure to perform well even when he's not being scrutinized, the fear of fucking up. Always that, he thinks, half-wryly.

            He can see the werewolf better now, still in a humanesque form before the shift. It looks like…just a regular girl, probably around his age. Dean's chest gives this uncomfortable twinge, but he viciously banishes the feeling to the back of his brain. She's a monster, so she's got to go. He sure as hell isn't waiting around for when she _doesn't_ look like a girl anymore.

            Hands still shaking slightly, he raises the gun, finger feather-light on the trigger, pointed at the girl's chest.

            There's a sudden, rippling growl behind him, a hot pulse of breath on the back of his neck, and by the time Dean whirls around he's already been blindsided, his knees swept out from under him with a pained, winded noise. Angry snarling fills his ears, pounding with his fast pulse as he scrambles for his gun, where it's skidded about five feet to his right. There's a sudden snap of teeth close to his neck, and Dean yells out and struggles, catching a glimpse of twisted, canine features as he fends the thing off. Surely the girl's got to be awake now, too, which there's no way in hell Dean can take two werewolves by himself—

            His heart is banging wildly against his chest as he grapples for his gun, using his other hand to dig fingers into the werewolf's windpipe, choking its air supply. The werewolf snarls and slobbers, lashing out with a clawed hand and catching Dean on the cheek. Dean cries out in pain, blinded for a moment by the blood that splatters into his eyes, and he wrestles even harder, trying not to lose his breath.

            _I'm going to die,_ he thinks wildly, hysterically, _a dog is going to fucking kill me._

There are two sudden, deafening bangs that sound out, and the werewolf scrabbling on top of him whines and goes stiff, its features lax, before it collapses on top of Dean.

            Dean wheezes for breath and shoves the corpse off of himself, trying to prop himself up on his elbow and failing, squinting to parse out a figure in the dark. The mystery figure steps into one of the seams of moonlight from the roof windows, and Dean realizes with a jolt that it’s Castiel, trenchcoat and all, Dean's gun in hand.

            "Dean—" he begins, making his way toward him in concern, and there's a dark flash of movement in Dean's periphery view.

            The she-wolf.

            "Cas, behind you!" Dean yells, and Castiel whips around with a flap of his coat, snapping the gun up immediately, but the she-wolf snarls and attacks him from above, springing from a pile of boxes and tackling Castiel to the ground in a tangle of limbs.

            Dean scrambles to regain his footing, feeling blood dripping down his neck as he dives for the gun that's been thrown from Castiel's grip.

            Dean grabs the gun, turns to the werewolf, and takes aim. He doesn't hesitate this time.

            Two bangs to the heart and the she-wolf's dead instantly, her body going rigid before she crumples sideways.

            Dean drops the gun and rushes to Castiel's side, whose eyes are closed, his form unmoving. There's a heavy, four-clawed gash across his chest, leaving his shirt in bloody tatters.

            "Cas," Dean says, then shakes him. " _Castiel._ "

            Castiel's eyes flutter open, refocusing on him hazily.

            "Don't fall asleep, got it? Did she bite you?"

            "No," Castiel says, still breathing heavily. "I'm fine."

            "You don't look fine," Dean says, swallowing the million questions he's dying to ask, given Castiel has, well. Seen better days, clearly.

            "Usually I would heal faster," Castiel says, attempting to pull himself into a pained, hunched sitting position, "but I'm growing weaker and weaker as the travel takes a toll on me."

            "What's the last thing you remember about me?" Dean asks, grabbing Castiel's arm and hauling him up so he’s standing, swaying precariously on his feet.

            "We were eating in the diner," Castiel says, almost buckling, and Dean takes one of his arms and wraps it around his shoulders for support. Castiel leans his weight on him, and Dean ignores the feeling of Castiel's hip pressed against his.

            "Yeah," Dean says with a snort, heading for the warehouse exit. "That was four months ago, buddy."

            "I'm sorry," Castiel says softly, his voice unevenly cadenced in his exhaustion.

            "’S fine. I've been busy anyway. Just wait in the car while I burn the bodies."

            "You're hurt," Castiel says with sudden, fixed concern, and he reaches over with a thumb to touch Dean's cheek. Dean flinches away in shock, and Castiel seems to remember himself and lowers his hand quickly.

            "It's fine," Dean says again, still weirdly unsettled by Castiel trying to touch him. "I've had worse. Just wait in the car and don't…vanish, alright?"

            "No promises," Castiel mutters, refocusing his gaze on where the Impala's parked a ways away, almost out of sight.

            The actual burning of the bodies that Dean sticks around for takes about ten minutes, the smoke curling up into the trees, mingling with the fog of Dean's breath. He takes those minutes to frantically assemble his thoughts as he watches the flicker and snap of the flames.

            Okay. So, Castiel's back. He knew this was coming eventually (well, he didn’t _know_ ), but it still knocks him just as flat on his ass as it had the first couple times. Castiel, pretty literally, just drops into his life whenever he feels like it, and now he's bleeding his guts out all over Dean's upholstery which, fine. Awesome. Another Tuesday in Winchester Wonderland, or whatever.

            Still, weirdo angel or not, Dean owes him one.

            "Thanks for saving my ass," is the first thing he says when he gets back in the car; Castiel is slouched sideways against the window, his bloody hands cupped over the wound on his chest, eyes half-lidded. "Hey, I said don't fall asleep."

            "Angels don't sleep," Castiel says hoarsely, which sounds like a knee-jerk response. "And I'm only glad I got here in time before something worse happened. No need to thank me."

            "So angels use guns, huh?" Dean asks with a short, skeptical laugh, which isn't even one of the shit-ton of questions he wants to drill Castiel with, but it's a start.

            "Not all of them do," Castiel replies with a wry curl of his mouth. "But you taught me how."

            Dean shuts up at that, thrown by Castiel's answer.

            "Whatever," he eventually comes up with, just to fill the meaningful silence that seems to follow.

            There's another few moments of silence; when Dean nervously glances sideways, he finds Castiel is already staring at him, still with that glazed, sleepy-eyed look, his mouth curved up in what's maybe a half-smile.

            "Quit the staring," Dean snaps, refastening his hands on the wheel uncomfortably.

            "I'm sorry," Castiel murmurs, closing his eyes. "You look so young. It's disorienting."

            " _You're_ disoriented," Dean mutters to himself with a disbelieving scoff. "Psh. Yeah. Okay."

            There's another heavy pause before Castiel begins, hesitantly, "I know how…strange this must be for you. I mean, it's odd for me, but I must seem completely bizarre to you. I don't mean to impose on your life, or make it more hazardous or difficult than it already is. If you'd like to drop me off at a motel—"

            "Dude, you're basically holding your guts in due to pulling my dumb ass from the fire," Dean says, raising an eyebrow and turning to look at him. "I owe you, at least for that. I'm pretty handy with a needle and thread."

            Castiel rolls his head to press his forehead against the window-glass, closing his eyes again and going quiet.

            "Although if I keep dragging your half-conscious ass through motels, I'm gonna get a bad rap around here," Dean jokes, and Castiel, eyes still closed, gives a soft smile.

            It's a short, quiet ride back to the motel—Dean can't figure out a damn thing to say, and Castiel, despite his conviction in consciousness, remains still with his eyes shut, his blood-crusted hands flattened to his chest to staunch the flow. Dean's face still stings like a bitch, although the blood's dried up pretty well. Still, it'll take some explaining and maneuvering to get past the motel employees without considerable side-eyeing and potential cop-calling. Dean had planned on booking it back to Bobby's tonight, but Castiel popping in puts a nice wrench in that plan.

            Castiel finally stirs when Dean parks the car and switches off the ignition. When he tries to prop himself up with an elbow, Dean swings around the other side of the car and opens the door, grabbing his arm.

            "You don't have to," Castiel says groggily, leaning into Dean even as he says the words.

            "Like I said," Dean mutters, tightening his fingers into Castiel's jacket for support. "I owe you one—"

            "You don't owe me anything," Castiel says, much more fiercely, and Dean's caught off-guard when he glances up and finds Castiel's gaze cutting into his. "I mean it, Dean."

            "Well, I want to," Dean says, half-embarrassed, half-irritated. "Happy now?"

            "Why?" Castiel demands, before he stumbles, nearly taking them both down.

            "Easy there," Dean says, steadying them. "And I'm not going to toss you on the street when you're scraped to hell. The hell do you take me for?"

            Castiel hesitates, then nods slowly in understanding, clenching his fingers into the shoulder of Dean's leather jacket.

            "You helped me out of a tight spot," Dean continues, pulling Castiel toward his motel room. "It's the least I can do."

            "Thank you," Castiel murmurs, through labored breathing; one of his hands comes up, clasping his shredded chest. "Not that it really matters."

            "What's that supposed to mean?"

            "Nothing," Castiel says, predictably, and Dean rolls his eyes. Cryptic son of a bitch.

            Dean practically drags them both into the room and sits Castiel down on the bed, where he lolls sideways like a rag doll, his eyes shutting again.

            "Oh no you don't," Dean says, grabbing both of Castiel's arms and tugging him into a sitting position. He tries to ignore the tiny part of himself that voices its discomfort with just how easy it is to be handsy with this guy, how Castiel just lets him. "You promised you wouldn't pass out."

            "I _won't_ ," Castiel says sullenly, like a child, his eyes drifting closed again.

            "Just wait here while I get stuff," Dean instructs him. "Shoes and shirt off."

            He spins quickly on his heel and goes for his duffel, rooting around for where he knows he's got a first aid kit and a small flask of vodka somewhere.

            "You should tend to your own wounds first," Castiel says from behind him, amidst a rustle of fabric.

            "Tis just a flesh wound," Dean says cheerfully over his shoulder. "Dude, I've had _way_ worse. And I seriously don't mind. You even know how many times I've had to patch Sammy up?"

            Castiel grunts a noncommittal noise, and when Dean turns, he's sitting with his hands folded between his kneecaps, chest bare, the cords of his shoulders relaxed. Dean swallows back the sudden dry feeling in his throat and crosses over to him.

            "This is gonna sting a bit—" he begins, then instantly derails when he notices the tattoo on Castiel's left pec, diagonal above his nipple. It's a pentagram shape, dark navy-green in color, framed by a flame-like pattern. "What's with the tat?"

            "You mean you don't—" Castiel says with a frown, tilting his head up to look at him in confusion before he trails off. He wets his lips uncomfortably, wincing. "It's nothing. A protection sigil."

            "To keep from getting possessed," Dean realizes, impressed. " _Nice._ That's smart."

            "I didn't come up with it," Castiel says with a shrug, which causes him to grimace in pain again. "But I'll pass that along."

            "I've never had a run-in with a demon before," Dean continues, motioning for Castiel to lie on his back. "But I hear they're scary fucks."

            Castiel stretches out on his back, his eyes tracking Dean's every movement, which makes Dean's skin crawl uncomfortably as he sets up various supplies.

            "My dad did a possession case once in Wisconsin," Dean says, fixing his eyes downward to focus on threading the needle. "He wrote about it in his journal. Used to give me nightmares. Now I've been hunting a long time—like, seriously, a long time, but I kind of hope I never have to tangle with one, you know?"

            "Yes," Castiel agrees, his gaze trained sleepily on Dean's fingers working at the needle.

            "Now I've got to hit the road tomorrow back to Bobby's," Dean hears himself saying, because he likes to talk when he works. It clears his head a little bit when he's trying to focus. "If you're still around you can hitch a ride back with me."

            "I'd like that," Castiel says softly. "It's been a very long time since I've seen Bobby Singer."

            "Yeah, and don't pull any of that shit around him," Dean warns, looking up at Castiel reproachfully. "Bobby won't buy a lick of it so you'll be wasting your breath."

            "But _you_ believe me?" Castiel asks.

            Dean sighs, pausing in his ministrations for a moment, before he concedes with a short nod, "Yeah, I think I believe you. Not on everything, but at least on the time stuff. What I've seen from you is just too freaking weird to think otherwise."

            "Good," Castiel says with a sigh. "That's all that matters."

            Dean swallows, feeling the tips of his ears flare up at the implications of that, before he snatches the flask of vodka off the bedside table.

            "This is gonna hurt like a bitch, just so you know," he says, and uncaps the flask.

            Castiel nods and closes his eyes, shifting his shoulders as if in preparation.

            Dean winces in sympathy as he dribbles the alcohol into the four individual gaping scratches on Castiel's chest, and Castiel hisses, his body at once convulsing in pain. Dean says, "Hey, hey, _whoa,_ " and steels a hand to Castiel's bare shoulder, heat sparking between them at the bare contact. Dean instantly recoils at the sensation, yanking his hand back like he's been burned, and Castiel's calmed himself now, taking loud, shallow breaths through his nose, eyes fluttering.

            "I'm fine," Castiel assures him, and Dean's stupidly distracted by the lamplight catching in the hollow of his collarbone. "Human pain sometimes…surprises me, how bright it is."

            "Bright. You don't say," Dean says, leaning forward with the needle. "Stay really still, alright?"

            This close, he can see the dusting of Castiel's stubble, each individual eyelash as he blinks and stares at Dean.

            "Okay," Castiel says quietly, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows, still staring at Dean.

            "Cool," Dean says, tearing his gaze away, and thinks sarcastically that this'll _definitely_ be easy to pull off with Castiel staring at him like a bug under a microscope.

            For a long time, it's silent, save for the soft _thwip_ of the needle being threaded through skin, and Castiel's occasional sucked-in gasps of pain when Dean tugs too tight. Dean finds it strangely easy to tune Castiel out, pretend it's just a disembodied person that he's patching up.

            "You're good at this," Castiel remarks sometime later, maybe to break the silence.

            Dean huffs a deprecating laugh. "Kinda have to be, in my line of work."

            "Mmm," Castiel says, and he more hums it than speaks it, just a rasping noise in his throat that Dean can feel through his hands.

            There's another moment of silence in which Dean thinks Castiel might've nodded off, so he says, to keep him awake, "What did you mean when you said it didn't matter if I helped you?"

            Castiel blinks, which Dean's slowly coming to associate, in a weird minimalistic way, with him being taken off-guard. It's something, at least.

            "I only meant," Castiel says, seeming to choose his words with care, "I won't make it out of this alive, so it doesn't really matter what happens to me along the way."

            "Make it out of what alive?"

            Castiel closes his eyes and offers a humorless smile. "My time is up, Dean. The clock is already running down. I only have a matter of time before it catches up with me, and unfortunately, there's no way of getting out of a hand dealt like this."

            "Before _what_ catches up with you?" Dean's stopped sewing him now, focused sharply on Castiel. "Let me guess: you can't tell me."

            "I'll tell you," Castiel says in a quiet voice. "Eventually. For now, I'd rather not think about it."

            "Well, I mean," Dean says, turning his attention to his work again. "For what it’s worth, dying's not all that bad, you know? Especially if you're just…tired. Fed up. It's just like sleeping for a long time, the way I see it."

            "If it were only dying, I wouldn't be nearly as distressed as I am," Castiel says, his eyes fastened plaintively on the ceiling.

            "Distressed? You seem pretty chilled out to me."

            Castiel closes his eyes and inhales deeply through his nose. "I'm afraid, Dean."

            Dean has no clue what to even say to that—how he's supposed to console someone who's practically a stranger to him, or at least someone who he's known for probably less than a collective three hours.

            "Sorry," he manages, moving onto Castiel's last scratch. "It's got to be freaky, whatever you're dealing with."

            Castiel sighs out slowly, through his teeth. "It's nothing you have to worry about."

            "What would happen?" Dean asks, dabbing at some of the dried blood with a wet paper towel he'd left crumpled on the nightstand. "If you died in the past, I mean."

            Castiel shrugs. "I'm not sure. At this point, I don't imagine it would make much of a difference to my overall fate."

            Dean doesn’t say anything to that—there’s really nothing _to_ say. It’s not like he can promise Castiel that nothing bad’s gonna happen, not when he doesn’t even know the full story.

            "Done," Dean says finally, using the now-pink paper towel to wipe away at the remaining blood. "Stay still and don't squirm around, alright? You don't want to bust any of those stitches."

            "I imagine I'll have healed by morning," Castiel says, his eyes drooping. "Thank you for your help, Dean."

            "Yeah, yeah," Dean grumbles to play it off, balling up the paper towel and tossing it in the trashcan. "I'm guessing I won't see you tomorrow morning."

            Castiel rubs at one eye with a knuckle, suddenly looking very tired. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. I can't be sure."

            "Okay," Dean says, toeing off his shoes and heading for the bathroom mirror. Castiel remains silent while Dean closes his eyes, tips his head back, and pours the remaining vodka over the scratches on his face, swearing lowly at the sting. He gently dabs away the blood and alcohol from his skin before shuffling back into the main room to flick out the light.

            "I'm trusting you not to kill me in my sleep,” he says as he grapples for his bed in the dark. “That's a big step for me."

            "That would be rather ironic," Castiel says, sounding amused as Dean lifts the covers on the other bed and crawls under them.

            "Why?"

            "Given the typical prayers about guardian angels," Castiel replies. "And given I'm yours."

            Dean goes very still, then sits straight up before he reaches over to click on the light. Castiel squints into the sudden brightness and blinks in surprise. Uncertainly, he asks, "Dean?"

            "What did you just say?"

            Castiel's lips press together, looking as though he's debating on repeating himself, before he says, cautiously, "I said I was your guardian angel. I didn't imagine it would come as a great surprise to you."

            "Well, it does," Dean snaps. "You're my guardian angel, huh? So where were you when my mom was burning alive? Seems like a pretty piss-poor job of _guarding._ "

            A shadow seems to cross Castiel's features before his expression smoothes out. "I didn't know you then," he says quietly, slowly propping himself up on an elbow so he won't tear the stitches. "Otherwise I would have done what I could. I'm sorry about your mother, Dean."

            Dean grinds his teeth, knowing his anger toward Castiel is irrational but tasting a metallic, bitter tang on the roof of his mouth all the same.

            "If it makes you feel better," Castiel says, still in that gentle voice, "nothing could've stopped what happened to her. Not even angels."

            "It doesn't," Dean says flatly, "make me feel better, I mean, but thanks for trying."

            Castiel nods, staring at Dean in that annoyingly pitying way, like Dean's a wounded animal.

            "Look, I don't know you from Adam," Dean says in a low voice. "I don't know what you're doing in my life, what you really want with me. But just…stop bringing up crap from the future, alright? I don't want to know it. I don't care about angels, about heaven, about _God._ I just want to live my life without getting jerked around."

            "I understand," Castiel says, still with that empty, smooth expression. "I wouldn't expect you to trust me, Dean, especially under the strange circumstances in which we've met. I only entreat that you know I will never try to hurt you, and I only have your best interests in mind."

            Dean gives him a hard look, figuratively sniffing out for bullshit, but Castiel continues to gaze at him somberly, like he's willing Dean to understand.

            "You swear?" he says.

            "Yes."

            "You swear on the Bible?"

            Castiel rolls his eyes. "I swear on the Bible."

            "…huh," Dean says, bemused. "I thought you'd like, spontaneously combust or something."

            "Sorry to disappoint."

            "If you're actually an angel, prove it. Like, I don't know, smite something."

            Castiel seems to fight back a small smile, before he rolls his eyes again, snaps his fingers, and the lights go out. "Good night, Dean."

            "Show-off," Dean grumbles, and he hears Castiel laugh quietly in the dark.

\---

            Dean doesn't know whether it's trepidation or relief he feels when he wakes up the next morning and Castiel is still stretched out in the bed opposite him—maybe a weird, poignant, perplexing mix of both. For a few moments, he just lies still in bed, watching the rise and fall of Castiel's chest suspiciously. The scratch marks from last night are gone, the skin unblemished save for the black stitches. Castiel's head is tilted toward him, his dark hair sleep-tousled and his eyes closed as though in deep meditation.

            Dean kicks back the covers and rolls to his feet, crossing to shake Castiel’s shoulder. Castiel jolts awake instantly, eyes refocusing on Dean with unsettling precision.

            "Thought angels didn't sleep," Dean says with a triumphant smirk, already headed toward the bathroom.

            "I was resting my eyes," Castiel says, near-mutinous, and Dean bites back a smile to avoid giving him the satisfaction.

            "So why are you still here?" Dean calls from the bathroom a moment later, after a quick hunt to locate a toothbrush. "Your last visits have only been like, an hour long."

            "I have a theory." Castiel's voice drifts closer to the bathroom. "I think the longer the gap of time between my visits, the longer I'm allowed to stay."

            "Mm," Dean says through a mouthful of toothpaste, before he spits and rinses. He gives a little jump when he straightens and Castiel has materialized in the bathroom doorway, watching him, their gazes locked in the mirror.

            "Warn a guy, will you?" Dean says peevishly. "It's called knocking."

            Castiel's head tips sideways sardonically. "I was unaware. Thank God I have you as a mentor for self-education."

            "Shut up," Dean says, chucking a towel at him, and he has the satisfaction of watching it drape over Castiel's head before he snatches it away and wads it into a ball.

            Castiel scowls at him, which only makes Dean grin wider.

            “So,” Dean says, turning back to the mirror and shoving the toothbrush back in his mouth. “You tagging with me then?”

            Castiel gazes back at him in the mirror, impassive. “If that would be alright.”

            Dean rolls his shoulders in a shrug, trying to play it cool. “Yeah. I mean, it’s fine. You don’t have anywhere else to go, so.”

            “I don’t want to burden you—” Castiel begins, and Dean waves one hand dismissively as he spits in the sink.

            “You’re not burdening me by catching a ride, Christ. Damn, are you always like this?”

            “Like what?”

            “Self-sacrificing and annoying.”

            “Yes,” Castiel deadpans. “I’m always like this.”

            “Well, cut it out.” He brushes past Castiel and goes for his duffel, shoving in random clothes without bothering to fold them. “Hope you don’t get carsick.”

            Turns out Castiel doesn’t have any belongings, other than his ratty, now-bloodstained coat, so it only takes them like five minutes to load up the car and then they’re off. Dean tries not to think about how bizarre the whole thing is—like hey, it’s already weird enough that he beheads monsters for a living. Might as well take a road-trip with a surly, infuriating, self-proclaimed angel.

            “You good?” Dean asks ten minutes into the trip, utterly at a loss for what to say or do. He feels strangely awkward. “Too hot, too cold? Hungry?”

            “Temperature and human physical needs don’t bother me,” Castiel says serenely, staring out the window at the ribbed seams of cornfields whipping by.

            “Bet you’re a blast at parties,” Dean grumbles, and cranks up the music. It’s one of his old Van Halen cassettes, and he side-eyes Castiel to see if he has a protest, but he looks relatively unmoved, still staring at the landscape flashing by.

            “So,” Dean says after another five minutes, and drums his fingers agitatedly on the wheel. “Uh, tell me about yourself.”

            Castiel swivels his head slowly to face him in one of those creepy, inhumanly stoic mannerisms that he has. “What?”

            “You know, like. Favorite color. Favorite music. Favorite food. I don’t know.” Dean can feel his face warming under Castiel’s inquisitive stare. “Look, dude, I don’t know anything about you so I’m trying, okay?”

            “Of course,” Castiel says, then pauses to think for a moment. “My favorite color exists outside of human perception, so it’s a little difficult to explain—it’s the color of the sunsets from heaven. The Enochian name is _piripson._ As for music, I heard Jean Sibelius’s first symphony in E minor performed by the Helsinski Philharmonic Orchestra in 1899. I enjoyed that.” He frowns and seems to contemplate something for a moment. “I also like Led Zeppelin, but almost entirely because you like Led Zeppelin. I don’t have a favorite food.”

            “Jesus,” Dean says, staring at the road. “Christ.”

            “You asked,” Castiel says, petulant.

            “Look,” Dean says, waving his hand around, trying not to look as hysterical as he feels. “I’m still catching up to the whole _angel_ thing, okay, so just…give me a week or something to get on board. You’re…a lot to handle.”

            When Dean looks at him again, Castiel is gazing at him with sad eyes—big, blue, stupid sad eyes, so sad that Dean demands, “What?”

            “I miss Dean,” Castiel says quietly, shuffling his hands together and looking back out the window. “The Dean that I know. I don’t think I’ll ever see him again.”

            “What am I,” Dean says, oddly offended, “chopped liver?”

            “You are great,” Castiel says, enunciated with such sincerity that Dean feels his neck get hot around the collar. “But I miss being friends with you and your brother.”

            Dean feels strangely guilty, like it’s _his_ fault that some weirdo creature is getting weepy about his time-travel separation anxiety.

            “Hey, man, I’m sorry,” Dean says, awkwardly. “Maybe we’ll get there, you know? Being friends, I mean.”

            “That’s all I have,” Castiel says, with what Dean thinks is forced ease. “Once the timeline catches up to me, I’ll be erased.”

            Dean’s eyes leave the road in astonishment for a good five seconds, staring at Castiel to see if he’s bluffing. “What?”

            “When I said my time is running out,” Castiel says, his eyes fixed forward, tracking the blur of the road. “I meant it. Once the temporal energy catches up to me, I’ll have never existed.”

            “Dude,” Dean says in horrified awe. “That’s so fucked up.”

            “You are all I have,” Castiel says to the road. His eyes look misty, old. “I’ll never see Sam and Dean again.”

            “Okay,” Dean says, trying to process, and he leans over to click the music off to unscramble his thoughts. “Okay, look. It’s not hopeless, okay? There’s got to be a way out, there always is.”

            “There is none,” Castiel says. “But I appreciate it. It won’t make a difference soon, anyway.”

            “What, and you’re just going to take that?” Dean asks in emphatic disbelief. “You’re just going to keep stringing along until you poof out of existence?”

            “It’s my only option, Dean,” Castiel says, finally turning to look at him, turning the weight of those old, sad eyes on him. It unsettles Dean how deeply he can feel it, like it’s cutting down to his marrow. “I’ve made my choices, and I don’t regret them. I do not fear death—I’ve been around long enough to understand the circularity of conscious life. I don’t fear oblivion, either.”

            “There’s no way you can just be okay with this, Cas,” Dean says.

            “I am.”

            “You’re a fucking liar, then.”

            Castiel almost smiles at that, a ghost of a thing, like something warm that’s been cast into shadow.

            “How long do you got?”

            Castiel gusts out a long sigh, contemplative. “I don’t know,” he says after a moment. “I can’t be sure. By my estimation, I’d say I probably have seven or eight years, in a human timeline—but that’s a matter of days for me in my current trajectory.”

            “Alright then,” Dean says. “What’s one thing you’ve always wanted to do but never got to?”

            Castiel purses his lips wearily, glancing at him sideways.

            “No, seriously,” Dean says. “I know we’re not really all that close—or in this time, or whatever—but no one should have to die without checking at least one thing off the bucket list.”

            “Angels don’t have bucket lists.”

            “Bullshit.”

            “There’s little I haven’t seen or done,” Castiel says. His jaw does this defiant, jutting thing, and he squints. “I’ve had a long existence.”

            “There’s got to be at least one thing that you’ve always _really_ wanted to try but never got around to,” Dean says stubbornly. “I’m not buying that you’ve done everything you wanted to or else you wouldn’t be this sad about dying.”

            “I’m not sad,” Castiel says, with an edge of frustration.

            Dean just purses his lips and stares at him skeptically. Castiel returns the gaze with equal ambivalence, looking just as unimpressed.

            They keep staring at each other until it borders on intense and uncomfortable and Dean has to glance away, diverting his eyes to the road again just to have something to focus on, to distract himself from the feeling of Castiel’s gaze blistering into his skin.

            “I did have…human desires, once,” Castiel says softly, so soft that Dean almost misses it. “But they’re nothing that can be achieved now.”

            “Well, not with that attitude.”

            “Intimacy,” Castiel says, staring down at his hands folded in his lap. “We don’t experience the same type of closeness between angels. A form of it, but not the same.”

            “Intimacy?” Dean echoes incredulously. “What, like…doing the do?”

            “No,” Castiel says. “Not exclusively.”

            Dean sighs in frustration. “I don’t really get you. What, so you just want to, like…hold someone’s hand? That seems pretty doable to me.”

            “It’s hard to explain,” Castiel says stiffly, and Dean senses the guardedness for what it is and shuts up with the questions. They don’t say anything for a long time, so long that Dean turns on the music again to fill the silence, trying not to put himself in the horror of Castiel’s position. He’d be fucking terrified, if the roles were reversed, but Castiel isn’t human, so maybe he just actually doesn’t care.

            For whatever reason, Dean doesn’t really buy that.

            He keeps glancing over furtively to check that Castiel’s still there, that he hasn’t Houdini’ed into thin air, and he feels this weird pang of relief every time he sees Castiel sitting there solid and real, slouched with his hair mashed up against the glass, eyes glazed over in thought.

            So maybe Dean’s been a little lonely since Sam took off. Nothing wrong with that. It’s just nice to have someone riding shotgun with him. He feels a little less insane.

            He stops once at a gas station in Nebraska to hit the head, and he jogs back outside once he’s done, _sure_ that this is the time Castiel’s going to be gone, that the passenger seat is gonna be vacant like he’d never even existed, but Castiel’s still sitting there, frowning down at his cellphone, fiddling with the buttons, and Dean puffs out this ridiculously quick breath.

            “You’re gonna give me long-term paranoia or something,” Dean says when he clambers back in the car.

            Castiel glances up from his dead phone, startled. “What?”

            “I’m always convinced that you’re just gonna vanish into thin air,” Dean says. “It’s kind of freaky.”

            “If it’s any consolation,” Castiel says gravely, “I feel the same way.”

            Dean shrugs and starts the car.

            Castiel sleeps the rest of the drive after that—sorry, _meditates—_ but the hours go pretty fast, all things considered. Dean sings quietly off-key to some old pop ballads on the radio, not loud enough to where he’ll disturb Castiel from his zen nap, and drums his fingers on the steering wheel to keep beat. He wonders how Sam and his dad are, and figures they’d call him if it were otherwise. Or maybe they wouldn’t. Along with crazy good looks and suicidal tendencies, Winchester genes seem to entail truly shit communication skills.

            Castiel, as if sensing the proximity to Bobby’s house, wakes up a couple minutes before they reach Bobby’s gravel driveway, squinting out the windshield as his eyes readjust to the light.

            “No weirdo angel crap, okay?” Dean warns when they pull to a stop in Bobby’s scrapyard. “Just, you know, play it cool.”

            “I am cool,” Castiel replies with intended irony.

            “Uh-huh,” Dean says skeptically, giving Castiel a slow periphery look before he shakes his head and climbs out of the car with a squeak of the hinges. He snags his duffel from the trunk and walks up to Bobby’s front door with everything silent save for the crunch of gravel under his shoes. He doesn’t bother to check for Castiel behind him.

            “Dean,” Bobby says, looking relieved when he swings open the door. “Just about to call and check in. Thought the werewolf might’ve got you.”

            “Nah,” Dean says jokingly, and Bobby eyes the puffy red scratch-marks on his cheek with a raised eyebrow. “Seriously, I’m good.”

            “Good to see you, boy,” Bobby says, reaching out to clap a hand on Dean’s shoulder before he swings the door wider in invitation. “Any news on your crazy angel case?”

            “Aha,” Dean says, pausing uncomfortably in the doorway. “About that. Uh…”

            Bobby stares at him in incomprehension, then slowly refocuses his attention over Dean’s shoulder where Castiel is making his way up the gravel driveway.

            Castiel doesn’t seem self-conscious, just jams his hands in his trenchcoat pockets and halts once he gets to the bottom step of the porch.

            “Dean…” Bobby says, a warning in his tone.

            “This is Cas,” Dean says, concealing the nervous edge in his voice with a confident grin. “Cas, meet Bobby.”

            “Hello, Bobby Singer,” Castiel says, in a completely non-cool way that has Dean glaring in exasperation.

            Bobby gives Castiel a slow, skeptical once-over, his arms crossed.

            “So you’re the angel, eh?” he says, with much more coolness than Dean suspects he feels. “Gotta say, you’re scrawnier than I pictured.”

            Maybe it’s Dean’s imagination, but Castiel’s chest seems to puff out a little bit, like some invisible feathers had gotten ruffled.

            “Rest assured, this is just a vessel,” Castiel says, which hey, fucking weird. They’ve never talked about that before, and Dean doesn’t really want to think about what that means.

            “Where’s your wings and halo?” Bobby says, with about as much derision in the words as one could muster.

            “Left them in the car,” Castiel replies, with just as much dryness.

            Bobby gives a faint, incredulous grin. Dean thinks it might be approval. “You want a drink? If God’ll, you know, let you without smiting you dead.”

            “God doesn’t much care what I do,” Castiel says dismissively, walking up the rest of the stairs and breezing past Bobby into the house.

            Bobby stares long and hard at Dean, clearly demanding an explanation.

            “He’s great, isn’t he?” Dean says weakly, and follows after Castiel into the house.

            “Sure,” he can hear Bobby saying sarcastically under his breath behind him. “Invite the wrath of God into my house. Great. Nice to meet you.”

            “Bobby,” Dean says once they reach the kitchen; he glances around but Castiel’s nowhere to be found. “I’ll explain everything, okay?”

            “You damn well better start,” Bobby says through a tight jaw, his eyes flinty like they get when he’s angry. “We don’t know what the hell that—that _thing_ even is, and what, now you’re bosom buddies with it? Sure, just show him where I live, parade him around—”

            “Bobby,” Dean snaps back, some figurative hackles rising. “I’m not an idiot, all right? I know what I’m doing. You think I would’ve brought him here if I thought he was gonna nuke the place?”

            “I don’t even know with you,” Bobby growls, and stalks over to yank a whiskey glass from the top shelf. “Whiskey or beer?”

            “Let’s make that a whiskey,” Dean says, wearily scrubbing a hand over his face. “And a whiskey for Fancy Wings too.”

            Bobby grumbles through his mustache threateningly, dipping his head so his cap shades his eyes from Dean’s view.

            Dean heads into the living room, where Castiel’s perched on the couch in an unnaturally upright position, like all the muscles in his shoulders have frozen in ramrod-straight contortions. Dean hesitates a moment before he takes up a seat on the opposite end of the couch, eyeing Castiel up, the way his spread fingers clasp either kneecap, his gaze fixed stiffly forward on the muted TV.

            “If my being here is causing a strain to your relationship with Bobby, I’m more than happy to leave,” Castiel says, with much more ease than his posture suggests.

            Dean rolls his eyes and leans his shoulders back into the familiar mold of the couch cushion. “Bobby can get over it. We still need more answers from you anyway.”

            Bobby walks into the room as though on cue, three glasses of whiskey and a cup of water pinched between his fingers.

            “Thank you,” Castiel says, reaching out for it when Bobby offers the glass, and Bobby promptly dumps the water over straight over his head.

            Castiel blinks up at him through the water in exasperation, his wet hair matted down around his ears. “Thank you,” he says again, twice as sardonically, and takes the whiskey from Bobby’s other hand.

            Bobby shrugs defensively at Dean’s exasperated look. “What? Just taking precautions.”

            Dean looks back over at Castiel, who’s got rivulets of holy water sliding down the bridge of his nose, dripping off his eyelashes as he tips the glass of whiskey back and swallows, and Dean finds himself saying, “I’ll get a towel,” and gets up to grab one.

            Bobby follows after him, going, “You think I’m just going to let some rando into my house and not check if it’s a demon?”

            “You think I hadn’t already checked?” Dean replies, grabbing a towel from where it’s hanging over the sink and heading back to the living room. “Yeesh, thanks for the vote of faith, Bobby.”

            “Does your dad know about this?” Bobby asks, still trailing after him like an annoying shadow.

            Dean hesitates, then hedges, “Know about what?” which Bobby picks up on instantly.

            “That you’ve been fraternizing with heaven’s Columbo over here.”

            Dean drops the towel on top of Castiel’s head, which is funny because it has the same effect of throwing a blanket over an angry cat, and answers, “He knows I’m hunting Cas. Nothing else.” He turns to face Bobby warningly and points a finger. “And you’re not gonna tell him anything, got it? Dad doesn’t believe in angels or any of that shit so he’ll try to take Cas out.”

            “He can try,” Castiel says darkly from his place on the couch, ruffling the towel through his wet hair.

            “Nobody’s going toe to toe with anyone,” Dean says, his voice made sharper by the sudden mental image of his dad and Castiel going for each other’s throats. “Dad doesn’t need anything to do with this.”

            Bobby’s gazing at him in surprise, his eyes slitted. “Keeping stuff from your dad? That ain’t like you.”

            “Yeah, well, this whole situation is fucked,” Dean says, making a hand gesture toward Castiel. “So until I get it more squared, mum’s the word, capiche?”

            “And Sam?” Bobby asks, arching one eyebrow. “Does he know?”

            Dean shifts from foot to foot uncomfortably, then clears his throat. “I’m not dragging Sam into hunting-related crap right now. He’s busy with his own shit. Got it?”

            “Okay,” Bobby agrees, his eyes traveling suspiciously to the back of Castiel’s head. “I don’t like this one bit. But I’ll keep my nose out of it.”

            “Thanks, Bobby,” Dean says, his shoulders sinking with relief. “Seriously, thanks.”

            Bobby casts him a curious look before his upper lip twitches in some unreadable emotion. He looks back at Castiel, who’s shrugging off his wet trenchcoat and draping it over the spine of the couch.

            “You seriously think he’s the real deal?” Bobby asks, as if Castiel isn’t right there and can easily hear everything being said.

            Dean sighs, deflating, and says, “I don’t really know what to think anymore.”

            Castiel turns up the volume on the TV, which is the soundtrack of a bunch of people cheering at a game show. Bobby must take this as his prompt to leave because he rolls his eyes and mutters, “Angels watch daytime television, _naturally,_ ” and goes off to the kitchen for presumably another drink.

            Dean sits on the farthest end of the couch again, glancing toward the TV before he speaks. “Uh. So you like Jeopardy?”

            “I’ve never actually seen it,” Castiel replies; when Dean looks down the length of the couch, Castiel’s feet are curled up next to him, his shoes gone, and the sight is just plain bizarre, like a square peg in a round hole or something. His socks are slightly mismatched, one gray, one white. “What’s the premise?”

            “Oh,” Dean says. “Well, uh. Basically it’s just trivia. They give you clues and you have to guess what the thing is that the clues describe.”

            Castiel frowns, a small furrow pinching between his eyebrows. “Is this supposed to be exceedingly difficult for contestants?”

            “Well,” Dean says, kind of thrown for a loop, given he’s never really had to explain the basic principles of Jeopardy to anyone, let alone to someone who’s not human. “The trivia facts can be hard or, y’know, obscure. That’s what makes it challenging.”

            “Oh,” Castiel says, then falls silent for another moment, intently absorbing what’s happening on screen. Then he adds, “Are we allowed to say it out loud if we know it?”

            “That’s kind of the point.”

            “Seppuku,” Castiel says randomly, and Dean looks to the screen, where the clue reads, “the Japanese name of this ceremonial formal suicide means to ‘cut your belly.’”

            “What is hara-kiri,” the woman says onscreen.

            Castiel shrugs dismissively. “Not quite as accurate, but passable.”

            “No, you have to say ‘what is’ before you say the answer,” Dean says.

            “Why?”

            “I dunno, that’s just how it works.”

            “Number of countries in the world that start with ‘X’,” the host says from the TV.

            “What is zero,” Castiel says in a bored voice.

            “See,” Dean says with a small, kinda proud grin. “Now you’re getting it.”

            They end up watching Jeopardy for like, three hours. It’s one of those game-show marathons that never seems to end and is probably programmed deliberately for old people, but Dean doesn’t really notice the time passing—he’s kind of bowled over by the sheer breadth of Castiel’s knowledge as he nails question after question save for the pop culture ones, which are Dean’s expertise. Every time Dean gets one right, Castiel casts this impressed look sideways, like he’s amazed by Dean’s wide (and pretty much useless) knowledge of old films and music, but it makes his chest swell with this weird pleasure and pride.

            “You’re very smart,” Castiel says, after Dean shouts out triumphantly, “Who are the Monkees?” and beats the contestant onscreen.

            “ _Ha,_ ” Dean scoffs, taking a swig of whiskey from his (third? Fourth?) glass. “No, I’m not. Or only in stuff that doesn’t really matter. Sammy’s always been the brains of the operation.”

            Castiel blinks at Dean, looking taken aback. “That’s not true.”

            “What?”

            “That’s not even remotely true,” Castiel insists. “Who told you that? You’re just as smart as Sam is, although you’re both gifted with high intelligence.”

            “Uh, thanks, Cas,” Dean says, staring down into his glass, probably red as a beet. “I guess. But seriously, I don’t care. I don’t need to be super smart to get my rocks off.”

            “It’s true, regardless,” Castiel says firmly.

            “Whatever,” Dean mutters, uncomfortable, his face on fire. He doesn’t answer any more questions for the rest of the round. Castiel doesn’t either, perhaps sensing Dean’s uneasiness, and when the credits roll, Castiel stands with an empty glass in hand, maybe to get more whiskey.

            “Hey, top me off too, would you?” Dean asks, thrusting out his empty glass and grinning at Castiel beatifically.

            Castiel glances at him in disapproval. “Haven’t you had enough?”

            “Never,” Dean says with a cheesy smile. “Dude, can you even get drunk?”

            “More easily, in my weakened state,” Castiel says thoughtfully. “But it’s more difficult for me than it is for you.”

            “That sucks,” Dean says. “But I’ve got pretty good tolerance. I’m kind of like, a pre-alcoholic.”

            Castiel looks stricken by this, and he says, quietly, “Don’t say that.”

            “What?” Dean says with a snort, lounging back against the couch, feeling his T-shirt ride up over his hips. “I’m just being honest. I’m almost 23 and I’m pretty sure my liver’s already shot to hell.”

            Castiel just stands there in the middle of Bobby’s living room, fiddling with the two empty glasses in his long fingers, his gaze cast downward.

            “What?” Dean asks, frowning.

            “Nothing,” Castiel says, heading toward the kitchen.

            “Doesn’t sound like nothing,” Dean mutters to himself.

            Castiel returns a couple of moments later with two full glasses of whiskey and sits down on the couch, far closer to Dean than is strictly comfortable, but Dean’s more than a little tipsy so he allows it.

            Castiel hands the glass to him, then holds it just out of reach with an admonishing look. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

            “ _Yeah,_ Jesus,” Dean grumbles, grabbing it from him. “What are you, my mom?”

            Castiel doesn’t say anything to that, just tilts the glass back to tip some whiskey in his mouth. Dean watches him curiously, tracking Castiel’s tiny mannerisms and expressions, trying to parse him out.

            “Okay, what’s your deal?” Dean says aloud, and Castiel turns to look at him, maybe surprised by the question.

            “What do you mean?”

            “Like, how did we get paired up? I mean, how the fuck is it that I crossed paths with an _angel_? Because that’s….not my usual schtik, I gotta say.”

            Castiel leans back in a surprisingly sinuous movement, his shoulders almost disappearing into the lumpy cushion of the couch. “Meaning?”

            “Well, I’m not even a little bit religious. I haven’t said a prayer since I was like, maybe five. And I’m not exactly on Santa’s nice list, so I guess it just doesn’t really make sense to me.”

            Castiel seems to process this, circling the pad of his fingertip around the rim of the glass. “You think it’s your moral virtue at question here.”

            Dean snorts, loud and long. “Ain’t really a question of moral virtue. Just, like…don’t angels usually visit people who deserve it?”

            Castiel glances up at this, his hand stilling in its movements, blinking at Dean. The lamplight catches in his eyes and Dean can see the tiny gold, reflective shards there, making his eyes almost grayish.

            “You deserve it, Dean,” Castiel says, lowering his gaze again. “You deserved more than me.”

            “What do you mean?”

            Castiel’s mouth curls up in this bitter almost-sneer. Dean immediately decides he hates the expression. “I’m….a poor excuse for an angel, and an even poorer excuse for a guardian. One of my deepest regrets for you is that you weren’t paired with an angel more deserving.”

            “Hey,” Dean says, leaning over to clap a hand on his shoulder bracingly. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, dude. You seem like a fine angel to me, even if you are a little….y’know, nontraditional.”

            “Like you said, Dean,” Castiel says, fastening his eyes to the whiskey-glass again. “You don’t really know me yet.”

            Something cold curls in Dean’s stomach at this, like an icy draft’s suddenly dispersed through the room.

            “Well, I probably like having a fucked-up angel in the future,” Dean says stubbornly. “Kinda my style, if you haven’t noticed.”

            Castiel attempts a smile, but it falls flat.

            The room sort of starts to swim, all hazy and sleepy in golds and greens with this warm, fuzzy-headed sort of glow, and Dean finds his eyelids drooping.

            “Seriously, you’re okay in my book,” he hears himself say, and Castiel murmurs a quiet reply that Dean doesn’t catch.

            He must drop off after that, because when he comes to, he’s propped up against something warm and the lights are all out. He squirms, squinting in the dark to figure out where he is, then goes very, very still when he hears deep breathing directly next to him, feels the rolling fluctuation of a body pressed to his.

            Dean’s eyes adjust slowly to the dark and he stiffens.

            His face is pressed against the coarse fabric of Castiel’s suit-jacket, his cheekbone digging into Castiel’s shoulder—and Castiel, who’s maybe-maybe not asleep, has his cheek rested on the top of Dean’s head, his steady breath stirring his hair.

            _Shit,_ Dean thinks, panicking, above a loud and long stream of _what the fuck,_ because falling asleep on random dudes is _not_ in any scenario normal for him—it’s actually pretty fucking terrifying, but Castiel is warm and solid and Dean’s surprised by that. For some reason, when he’d imagined touching Castiel ( _not_ that he had), he’d thought Castiel would be cool with a hard shell, like marble. But he feels…human, soft and warm, his body curled against Dean’s.

            Surely this can’t be a _normal_ thing, Dean thinks, with them, or whatever. He’d never, ever allow it.

            He’s about to move away when Castiel’s arm starts glowing, just a small prick of golden light in the dark, but the vein of light moves up Castiel’s arm, to his shoulder, along his neck.

            Dean scrambles back in alarm and hisses, “ _Cas,_ ” and Castiel jolts up, looks around in disorientation before the shine emanating from his skin catches his attention.

            “Damn,” Castiel says softly, his hand clenching into a slow fist, light splitting out between his knuckles. “Goodbye, Dean.”

            “No, _wait,_ ” Dean hears himself saying, and he reaches out to grab onto Castiel’s arm, but he vanishes and Dean’s left holding nothing.

\---

            Dean can’t get back to sleep after that. He thinks it’s probably around 5am when Castiel had taken off, meaning he should be fucking exhausted, but he feels too restless to sleep whenever he closes his eyes. He ends up wandering around Bobby’s house aimlessly in his bare feet, looking through some of Bobby’s shelved old documents before he hijacks the coffeemaker in the kitchen when the sun starts to rise.

            Dean leans back against the counter, feeling the hard edge digging into his hip as he stares out the kitchen window at the sun bronzing the horizon. The quiet burble of the coffeemaker is a nice distraction—the smell of coffee always reminds him of Lawrence, for whatever reason. He thinks his mom maybe used to brew it in the early mornings. Sometimes he thinks, if he tries hard enough, he can still remember his mom singing as she’d drifted around the kitchen, a baby Sam on her hip, but Dean more often than not thinks he’s making that up out of wishful thinking.

            The familiar rumbling creak of the wooden staircase signals Bobby’s approach as he descends the steps, blinking and rubbing his eyes in the early sunlight streaming through the kitchen windows. His cap’s missing and patches of his graying hair are askew.

            “Dean?” he asks in surprise. “The hell you doing up so early?”

            “Couldn’t sleep,” Dean says, twisting to reach for a coffee mug from the top shelf over the sink.

            “Where’s Castiel?” Bobby asks suspiciously.

            “Gone,” Dean says. He takes the coffee pot and slowly pours himself a full mug, the steam curling up like a cat’s tail. “Took off this morning.”

            “Dammit,” Bobby says under his breath. “I wanted to question the bastard.”

            “Coffee?” Dean offers, reaching for another mug.

            “Only if it’s got Baileys in it, thanks.”

            Dean smirks and shrugs. “Suit yourself.” He raises the rim of the mug to his lower lip, the ceramic warm against his skin, and blows.

            “How you feeling?” Bobby asks. The question’s innocent enough, but Dean has the feeling Bobby’s secretly sizing him up.

            Dean shrugs again, his lower lip jutting out. “Fine. Don’t know why I wouldn’t be.”

            “I know this angel stuff, it’s…” Bobby pauses, seeming to assemble his words carefully before he continues. “It’s not really in your league. It’s big stuff. It’s a lot to take in.”

            Dean snorts. “Yeah, well, Cas isn’t exactly the poster child for heavenly wrath.”

            “Yet,” Bobby adds ominously. “He can’t be trusted, Dean. He’s not even from the planet, for Christ’s sake. You’ve _got_ to be more careful.”

            “I am careful,” Dean insists. “I’m telling you, if Cas had wanted to take me out by now, he would’ve, alright? He’s had more than enough chances.”

            “So you trust him,” Bobby says, dubious.

            “I don’t know if I trust him, but I don’t think he’s got anything nasty planned.”

            Bobby goes silent for a moment before he asks, “When’s the next time you’ll see him?”

            “Hell if I know,” Dean says. “Dude pops in and out whenever he feels like.”

            “Inconvenient.”

            “Yeah, you’re telling me.” Dean scoops up his coffee and heads for the living room again, thinking maybe some shitty morning TV will be a nice distraction before he notices the tan coat hanging over the back of the couch.

            “Idiot left his coat,” Dean mutters to himself, plunking his mug down on the coffee table and picking it up. He’s about to toss it down to the other end of the couch when a soft crackle of paper catches his attention.

            Dean frowns and pats down the outside pockets, but comes up empty. He tucks his hand inside the coat and realizes there are inside pockets he hadn’t checked before, the first time Castiel was knocked out. His hand closes around a piece of thick paper inside the left pocket, and he tugs it out.

            It’s a photograph, that much is clear, but it’s water-damaged almost to the point of inscrutability—some of the color looks runny and bleached, like it had gotten tossed through a washing machine. Dean looks closer and his stomach gives a funny flip.

            It’s him and Sam, but it’s— _not_ him and Sam. They’re older—like, they look basically the same, only maybe a little bigger, maybe a little rougher, maybe a little more tired. He can’t tell the differences between the crow’s feet around their eyes and the crinkles in the parched paper. The two of them are perched on the roof of the Impala, like some attempt at a pose that had gone awry. Sam’s hair is halfway to his shoulders, and he’s smiling wanly into the camera, just a slight show of teeth, like he’s exasperated with whatever’s going on.

            “Nice hair, Sammy,” Dean mutters in disbelief, then turns to examine himself more closely.

            The other Dean is laughing, his head slightly tilted back and his eyes crinkled in open amusement, like someone’s told a funny joke. His laughing gaze is directed beyond the focal point of the lens, like he’s sharing some secret joke with someone behind the camera.

            Dean slips the photo back inside the coat, his heart pounding, something tight and cottony working its way up his throat. He’s got this uncomfortable feeling like he’s intruded on some moment of great privacy and intimacy, like he’d seen something beyond the curtain that he wasn’t supposed to see.

 

            “Don’t tell me you’re getting all weepy now,” Bobby drawls as he enters the room, phone cradled in hand, and Dean drops the coat like it’s burned him.

            “I’m not,” Dean says defensively. “Just looking for any extra clues.”

            “Your brother’s on the phone,” Bobby says, holding out the phone for Dean to take.

            Dean nearly trips over the couch in his sudden haste. “Sam? Sam’s on the phone?”

            Bobby rolls his eyes. “No. Your _other_ brother.”

            “Funny,” Dean grumbles, yanking the phone from Bobby’s grasp. “Sam? Sammy? Hey, what’s up?”

            Sam takes a breath on the other line and starts to say, “Hi, Dean—”

            “Are you okay?” Dean demands. “Are you hurt?”

            “ _What_? Dean, no, I’m—I’m _fine._ Jeez.”

            Dean flattens a palm over his racing heart, feeling the beats steadily slow down. “You’re gonna raise my blood pressure.”

            “Not my fault you’re pre-diabetic,” Sam teases through the line, and Dean grins so wide that his face kind of aches.

            “Well, hey, you almost never call me unless you’re in a bind. What’s going on?”

            Sam hesitates before speaking—it seems like a guilty pause at Dean’s last admission, which wasn’t what he’d meant by it, but still. It’s true.

            “I tried your cellphone a few times but you didn’t pick up,” Sam says. “I figured I’d give Bobby’s a try.”

            Dean frowns. Sam’d really been desperate to reach him, then. “Yeah, uh, cell’s dead. Something going on?”

            There’s a rustle on the other end, and Dean can picture Sam fidgeting. “It’s nothing big. Maybe it’s nothing—”

            “It’s never nothing,” Dean says dryly.

            “I thought about…y’know, calling Dad, but I, uh…don’t think he wants to hear my voice right now.” Sam chuckles in an attempt at levity, but Dean hears the prickly discomfort for what it is.

            Dean almost contradicts him, almost says, _Hey, no, it’s fine. He asks about you all the time. He never stops asking about you._ But something stops up in his throat and he doesn’t say that, even though he knows he should.

            “Did something happen?”

            “Not…exactly,” Sam says in a stilted voice. “I don’t…I don’t really know how to explain it. It’s just this gut feeling.”

            Dean can say a lot of things about Sam, but the kid’s always had this uncanny intuition about things. It’s actually kind of freaky.

            “Okay, well, what’s your gut telling you?”

            Sam blows out a long breath before he starts speaking again. “Okay, there’s this popular bar on campus, right?”

            “…right,” Dean says, not quite expecting that but playing along.

            “Like everyone goes there after games for drinks. There’s this really popular bartender there—his name’s Mo; Mo Tanner, I think. And I mean like, Mo’s kind of a fixture, you know? Like everyone knows Mo. He usually gives free rounds to kids he likes. He’s been here as long as I’ve been here—”

            “Are you getting to the point?”

            “ _Yes,_ ” Sam says defensively, and Dean grins at the bitchy tone. “Like I was saying, everyone knows Mo. So Jess and I—”

            “Who?”

            “Oh. Uh, Jessica,” Sam says, sounding dodgy now. “She’s just this girl I like. We’re just friends.”

            Dean gets this unpleasant curling feeling in his gut. It feels a lot like jealousy.

            “So Jess and I were there the other night and Mo wasn’t there. Mo’s _always_ there, he runs the place.”

            “So? Maybe he had a sick day.”

            “You don’t think I thought of that? The thing is, he wasn’t there the day after that, or the day after. It got to be a whole week before I finally asked someone about it. And, get this—the guy I asked said, ‘Who’s Mo?’”

            “Okay,” Dean says slowly. “Could be the guy’s new and just didn’t know the bartender.”

            “Again, thought of that,” Sam says impatiently. “So then I started asking around the bar. _No one_ knew who he was. No one had even heard of him, Dean. I even asked Jess, and she looked at me like I’d grown a second head. It’s like this guy was just…wiped from existence, but I’m the only one who’s got a clue. No missing reports, no record he’s ever even been alive. It’s fucking bizarre. You don’t think I’m crazy, do you?”

            Dean’s gone pretty still, something cold and clammy tightening in his chest. Something about those words triggers a memory, barreling down the highway yesterday, Castiel talking to him in shotgun, looking at him with those big sad eyes.

            “It could be nothing,” Dean hears himself saying.

            “No,” Sam pushes on, stubborn. “I’ve…I’ve got this feeling about this, Dean. I don’t think we should ignore this.”

            “Well, what are we supposed to do?” Dean says. “We can’t just dial up the cops and report him missing. We can’t _hunt_ him. So what are we supposed to do?”

            “I don’t know,” Sam says, deflating. “I was kinda hoping you’d know. That’s why I called. I…don’t know what to do here, Dean.”

            Dean breathes out slowly, shading his eyes with his hand. “Okay. Let’s just think about this for a second.”

            “What would Dad do?” Sam asks quietly.

            Dean swears under his breath.

            “I don’t know,” he eventually says. “People dropping off the face of the planet is kind of above our paygrade.”

            “Do you think we should we call him?”

            Sam’s looking for him on what to do on this. Because Sam’s scared. The uncertainty in his voice is kind of like being kids again, like when Sam had asked Dean why Dad kept a revolver under his mattress.

            Dean has no more clue what to do now than he did then. But he’ll do what he always does and bullshit a plan, if it’ll make Sam feel more at ease.

            “Let’s keep Dad out of this for now,” Dean says with much more confidence than he feels. “Just until we’ve got more of an idea of what we’re up against.”

            “You don’t think he’d be able to help?”

            “Dad’s busy with his own crap,” Dean says. “Just keep tabs on it and if something else happens, we’ll tell him. Alright?”

            “Alright,” Sam agrees, sounding incrementally more relieved. “And thanks, Dean. I know you’re probably busy with your own stuff.”

            _Not really,_ Dean wants to say, a little more than bitter, but it’s easy to pretend he’s really busy with important life stuff whenever he’s talking to Sam. The latent need to impress and role model for Sam never quite seems to fuck off, no matter how long Sam keeps away from him. “Nah, it’s cool. I’m glad you called me. I don’t want you to have to deal with this crap on your own.”

            “Stay safe out there, okay?” Sam says, which Dean takes as a goodbye.

            “Yep, you too. Don’t let the scary librarians eat you while you’re being a nerd.”

            He almost hears Sam smile. “I’ll do my best.”

            Dean hangs up after that and hands the phone back to Bobby, a bad taste still in his throat from what he’d heard.

            Bobby’s got his eyebrows raised. “What was that all about?”

            “Oh, nothing. Sam thinks he’s stumbled onto a case of some kind. Told him not to bug Dad with it.”

            “John could stand to be bugged by his kids every once in a while,” Bobby grumbles, and heads back to the kitchen. Dean’s more than used to Bobby making passive-aggressive remarks about John’s parental abilities, so he lets the comment roll off like white noise.

            He flops back down onto the couch next to Castiel’s coat and flips the TV on. Jeopardy’s on again, different episodes from yesterday. Dean’s thumb hovers on the “Next Channel” button on the remote, before he puts the remote down and keeps it on.


	3. Chapter 3

**April 15, 2002**

            It’s fucking cold for April. Dean’s not dressed for it—not dressed for the Montana mountains at night, anyway. His whole body feels numb and wrung out, like his joints are creaking with his step as he makes his way back to the cabin. His eyes keep smarting and stinging with the cold wind, and he sneezes, his jaw throbbing with what he’s sure is an impending bruise.

            Tenderly, he raises his fingers to massage the spot where he can feel a purplish knot forming. His dad had taken off into the woods to take care of the kitsune by himself and had shouted at Dean to go back to base, which is a command that Dean can’t exactly ignore, no matter how much he wants to prove himself.

            Dean gently presses his fingers into the aching spot on his jaw, his eyes tearing up again automatically at the sensation. He pushes down harder, punitively, until the nerves along his jaw seem to bite with pain.

            After about another half-mile of trudging, cursing, and stumbling, he can parse out, through the trees, a glimpse of the cabin where he and his dad had set up camp for the weekend. The muted amber glow of the windows suddenly looks like a godsend, given Dean’s shitty-ass night, and he hikes miserably up the packed-dirt road to the house, the muscles in his thighs burning.

            He sheds his jacket the second he’s inside and heads to the bathroom to check his face for more injuries. He stops at the mirror, propping his arms up on either side of the marble sink, and surveys his reflection in disgust. His jaw looks ugly, already swollen and starting to splotch, and there’s a small, stinging laceration cut into the soft skin between his eyebrow and eyelid. His eyes look watery, red-rimmed, tired.

            Furiously, he punches the glass—not hard enough to shatter it, but hard enough to hurt, his knuckles going numb and tingling at the impact.

            “Son of a bitch,” he growls, cradling his hand, and at that moment there are two sharp knocks on the cabin’s front door.

            Dean freezes, then reaches for the gun in his waistband. No way had his dad wrapped up the hunt that quick.

            The pounding ache in his hand and face suddenly seems to dissipate as he raises the gun and creeps toward the front door with a soft step. He presses the muzzle of the gun against the wood of the door, holding his breath for one, two, three seconds before he snaps the door open, clicking back the safety and aiming the barrel at the stranger.

            Well…not stranger. It’s Cas, his hair just as disastrous as it always is, his shoulders slumped, his cheeks rosy with the cold.

            “Hello, Dean,” Castiel says, eyeing the gun with some mild disinterest.

            “Cas,” Dean says just as cordially; his held breath decompresses out of him in either relief or surprise, and he lowers the gun, feeling his pulse slow.

            “May I come in?”

            Dean nods wordlessly, side-stepping to allow Castiel inside, his heartbeat suddenly picking up for a different reason that makes his stomach gives a tight squeeze. It’s been…two, almost three months since he last saw Castiel, and he doesn’t want to admit it, but he’s…kinda glad to see him again. Every time Cas goes missing, Dean’s just a little more convinced that he’s fucking nuts.

            “Still think I might be hallucinating you,” Dean admits, releasing the safety and sliding the gun back in his waistband. “Want some gin? It’s all we got here.”

            “No, I’m fine,” Castiel says, his hands dangling by his sides, assessing Dean warmly. “It’s good to see you, Dean.”

            Dean swallows against the heat starting to prickle in his jaw. “Yeah. It’s good to see you too. It’s been a while.”

            Castiel’s eyes droop wearily, and he asks, quieter, “How long?”

            “Two months, I think.”

            Castiel closes his eyes and drops his head a little bit, so his chin is tucked against his chest. “I’m sorry.”

            Dean shrugs. “You can’t help it.”

            “Still, it must hurt all the same.”

            “Hurt?” Dean echoes.

            Castiel stares back him blankly before comprehension registers on his face.

            “I keep forgetting,” Castiel says with a wry smile. “We’re not quite friends yet. My absence doesn’t affect you the way yours affects me.”

            “Oh,” Dean says. He wants to say that’s not entirely true—that he spends more time than he’d care to admit wondering when Cas’ll drop back into his life, maybe to watch more Jeopardy or steal more coffee. Maybe to claim his stupid coat and his stupid photograph, which Dean’s pulled out to stare at more than once. But that’s not anything he’s gonna say out loud, especially if it’ll give Castiel leverage over him.

            “What are you doing here?” Castiel asks with a frown, smoothly changing the subject. “Are you on a hunt?”

            “Yeah. Well, I was.” Dean drops his eyes, shame bubbling up in his throat, and for a moment, he’s too embarrassed to speak.

            “Dean?” Castiel takes another step forward, his eyebrows crooked in concern now. His eyes refocus on the bruise blossoming on Dean’s jawline, and he gets this strange, blank expression on his face.

            When he’s close enough, Castiel reaches up one hand to gently touch the bruise with a stroke of his thumb, maybe forgetting himself, and Dean flinches back in pain and hisses.

            “You’re hurt,” Castiel says, pulling his hand back quickly. “What did this to you?”

            “It’s not a big deal—” Dean begins, his cheeks still flaring up like wildfire at the casual tenderness of Castiel’s fingers, soft on his skin.

            “Dean,” Castiel repeats, in this growling voice that reminds Dean that he is, in fact, dealing with an angel—of some considerable capability, at least.

            “I was stupid, alright?” Dean snaps, feeling his shoulders knot up defensively. “I fucked up.”

            “The monster hurt you?”

            “No,” Dean says tightly, embarrassment overwhelming him again, and for a moment he can’t speak, before he eventually says, “My dad clocked me one because I screwed up the hunt and almost got us both killed. It’s not like it’s anything big—”

            Castiel looks terrifying. That’s the only way Dean would describe it—like he can finally get that this dude was born from the wrath of God, or whatever. Locked jaw, dark, stormy eyes, his fists balling at his sides, and for just a moment, for the first time, Dean thinks he catches a brief glimpse at the divine creature behind the human mask.

            “Your father hit you,” Castiel says in an even voice, much more calmly than Dean suspects he feels.

            “It’s _nothing,_ ” Dean insists, feeling stupid for even saying anything in the first place. “I mean, parents smack their kids all the time when they do dumb shit, Cas. It barely even hurts. Hell, I _deserved_ it—didn’t you hear me say I almost got us killed?”

            Castiel stares at him for another few moments, his features completely expressionless now. His shoulders are still tense, and that’s why he looks strange, Dean realizes—he’s not wearing the dumb coat.

            There’s another bang on the front door, and Dean jumps—Castiel just transfers his gaze to the doorway, unmoving.

            “I’ll get it,” Dean says, going for the gun in his waistband again. He pauses at the front door, pressing an ear against the wood to listen for a noise on the other side.

            “Dean?” his dad’s voice says through the door after a moment of silence. “It’s me. Password Impala67, or whatever.”

            Dean breathes out a heavy sigh of relief and swings open the door. John brushes past him, rifle slung over his shoulder, dry blood flecked on his cheek and in his dark scruff. He drops his jacket on the coat-rack.

            “Everything go okay?” Dean asks, trying to keep the guilt from his voice.

            “Yep,” John says in a completely blank tone that somehow makes Dean feel even crappier. “Went out without much of a fight.”

            Castiel shifts in Dean’s periphery vision, causing them both to turn.

            “Dad,” Dean says quickly before John can say anything or pull a gun. “This is Cas. He’s a friend.”

            “A friend?” John repeats, half-skeptical, half-hostile, his finger twitching toward the trigger of his rifle.

            “Yeah, he’s a hunter from down south,” Dean says quickly, casting Castiel a swift imploring look to confirm the alibi. “He was just stopping in. Same case as us, but we got here first.”

            “Not really dressed like a hunter,” John says with a snort, gesturing to Castiel’s suit-jacket and tie, but he seems to relax an increment all the same. “How is it you two know each other?”

            “Uh…” Dean stalls.

            “Worked a werewolf case together a few months ago,” Castiel replies in this dead voice that makes all of the hair stand up on the back of Dean’s neck—his tone seems neutral enough, but there’s something almost too still about him, like a riptide under a smooth surface of water. There seems to be a strange electric charge in the room, like the way air tastes before a summer storm.

            “You’re John Winchester?” Castiel asks, still in that level, easy voice, stepping forward.

            John nods and sticks out a hand for Castiel to shake. Castiel takes it in a firm grasp before he pulls back and promptly punches John in the face with a sharp crack, sending John sprawling with the force of the blow.

            “ _Cas!_ ” Dean shouts, horrified, and John’s spitting curses, already scrambling toward his gun before he raises it and points it right at Castiel’s chest with a loud click.

            Dean scrambles in front of Castiel, holding out a hand in his dad’s direction. “Dad, don’t, he didn’t mean it—”

            “Get out of the way, son.” John almost snarls the words, stumbling to his feet with the gun still cocked. There’s a smear of blood dribbling from his lower lip into his beard where his lip had gotten sliced open.

            “Move, Dean,” Castiel says tersely behind him, and Dean can feel Castiel practically vibrating directly behind him, itching for a fight. _Hey,_ Dean thinks wildly, _at least they agree on something._

“Dean, _move,_ ” John thunders, jabbing the gun forward. “That’s an order, you hear me?”

            Dean’s hand, still outstretched, is trembling now. “With all due respect, sir,” he says, his voice shaking, “you’ll have to shoot me first.”

            There’s a moment of locked tension in which no one moves—Dean can still feel the rage pouring off John in thick waves, can feel Castiel’s warm, heavy breath at the ready behind him. John scowls darkly, the gun still raised, before he lowers it with a sharp click. Dean sags with relief, all the breath feeling like it’s been punched out of his chest.

            “Get him out of my sight,” John says, his dark eyes still fixed venomously on Castiel.

            Dean digs a hand into the lapel of Castiel’s suit-jacket and drags him, pulling him toward the front door and out.

            “The fuck were you thinking?” he shouts when they get outside, giving Castiel a rough shove. “Do you have a fucking death wish?”

            “He deserved that and more,” Castiel says calmly, smoothing his shirt over where Dean had rumpled it. “He treats you terribly.”

            “Yeah, no shit!” Dean snaps. “He’s my dad and sometimes he sucks, sure, but he’s still my _dad._ Doesn’t give you a right to go around throwing punches. _Jesus._ ”

            “You shouldn’t have put yourself in danger like that,” Castiel says, his eyebrows pulled down over his eyes in a disapproving frown. “Not on my behalf.”

            “He would’ve shot you dead, Cas, trust me on that.”

            “That would’ve been my problem.”

            “ _God,_ ” Dean bites out, storming off toward the woods, his jaw still stinging from earlier. Castiel, annoyingly, follows after him.

            “Where are you going, Dean?” Castiel calls after him.

            “To the Impala so I can get away from you.”

            He hears Castiel sigh and hesitate, but a moment later the sound of footsteps crunching softly on gravel and dirt resumes, telling Dean he’s still being followed.

            “Seriously, beat it,” Dean says over his shoulder. “I never asked to be dragged into your time-warp shit.”

            The footsteps pause again, and Dean walks a few more feet before he whirls around to yell at Castiel head-on, but the guy’s vanished.

            “Huh,” Dean says under his breath. For a moment, he looks around, making sure Castiel’s truly gone, before he turns back around and keeps going, headed toward the Impala parked at the base of the hill’s driveway.

            “If I don’t get my ass kicked into next Sunday because of you, I’ll be lucky,” Dean grumbles under his breath, reaching into his pocket and grappling for his car keys. When he gets to the Impala, Castiel, to his unpleasant surprise, is already sitting shotgun, watching his approach with an infuriatingly calm expression.

            “You just don’t quit, do you?” Dean says in irritation, rounding the other side of the car and opening the door. “How the hell’d you get in here, anyway?”

            “I’ve still got some transporting abilities left,” Castiel says. “For distances less than a mile, that is.”

            For a moment Dean just sits there, not sure of what to do—he’s torn between wanting Castiel both to stay and scram, before Castiel speaks for him.

            “I can leave, if you want me to,” Castiel says sincerely. “I won’t apologize for what I did to your father, but I understand how it must seem from your perspective. I said it before, and I meant it, Dean: I don’t want to cause rifts for you.”

            “You don’t have anywhere else to go,” Dean says in a grudging voice, wrapping his fingers around the steering wheel.

            “I’ll manage,” Castiel says with a small smile, reaching for the door-handle. “But if I don’t see you before I disappear again, I want to tell you that—”

            “Just.” Dean closes his eyes, his teeth grinding in frustration. “Just. Ugh. Stay, alright? You’re fine. I’m not going to kick you out in the cold.”

            “You’re sure?”

            “Less by the second, if you don’t quit asking.”

            Castiel shuts the car door with a squeak and leans back in the shotgun seat, closing his eyes. “Thank you.”

            “You left your dumb coat last time, by the way,” Dean says, starting the car. “It’s in the trunk.”

            Castiel’s eyes slide open slowly, and he rolls his head to stare at Dean. “You kept it?”

            Dean repositions his hands on the wheel, uncomfortable. “What, did you want me to pitch it?”

            “No,” Castiel says, closing his eyes again. “Thank you.”

            “Just being a decent human being,” Dean says with a self-conscious shrug of his shoulders. “Nothing to thank me for.”

            “You’re far more than decent,” Castiel murmurs, so quietly that Dean half-wonders if he misheard. He pretends he did.

            For a moment, it’s quiet except for the rumble of the Impala on the bumpy dirt road, before Dean says, with a breathed-out, defeated laugh, “My dad’s gonna kick my ass.”

            Castiel straightens up in his seat, more alert. “Why do you say that?”

            “Uh, because one of my so-called friends tried to knock his lights out?” Dean says, raising his eyebrows. “Who do you think gets to deal with that fallout, Cas?”

            “I’ll kill him,” Castiel vows in a low, cold voice.

            “Whoa, whoa, just— _chill,_ alright?” Dean says, casting an alarmed look sideways. “Jeez, what’d he ever do to you?”

            A muscle in Castiel’s jaw clenches, and he turns to look out the darkened window stonily.

            “I take it you guys don’t get along in the future,” Dean guesses. “But that shit’s got no bearing here. He hasn’t done anything to you yet. So just leave him alone.”

            “It’s not about me,” Castiel says angrily, “he—” before he interrupts himself and shakes his head. He seems to collect himself and continues, “I’ll respect your wishes and keep my distance. But I want you to know, that…” Castiel takes a deep, jagged, frustrated breath, and expels it just as sharply. “You don’t deserve what he puts you through. Neither does Sam.”

            “He’s just doing his best,” Dean says defensively, feeling another spark of indignant anger flash through him. “You don’t know _anything_ about him, got it? He’s nothing like you think he is.”

            Castiel opens his mouth, seeming like he’s about to argue, but he just sighs and looks out the window again.

            “Where are we going?” Castiel asks eventually, seeming eager to move to a new conversation topic. Which, hey, that’s fine by Dean.

            “Well, I’ve got a twelve-pack in the trunk and a full tank of gas,” Dean says with a light shrug. “I didn’t have anything specific in mind.”

            Dean thinks that Castiel smiles, so briefly that he almost misses it out of the corner of his eye, and when he turns to look, Castiel’s got his head tilted away from him.

            “Unless you…don’t want to,” Dean says, uncertainly.

            “Dean,” Castiel says, his voice fond now. “I would travel to the ends of the earth with you, if you simply asked.”

            Dean bites down on his tongue, bushwhacked by the devotion of the casual words, completely thrown for how to respond.

            “Well, I don’t have the gas for that,” is what he comes up with, weakly, and Castiel smiles out the window.

            There’s another moment of silence before Dean speaks again. “Sometimes I just want to run,” he says, his voice seeming heavy in the quiet, and the words are difficult to voice, burning like acid in his throat.

            Castiel doesn’t turn fully, but the slight cant of his head lets Dean know he’s keenly listening.

            “I just.” Dean swallows, and his chest feels scraped raw at confessing this out loud, where the words can hurt him. “I don’t mind hunting, you know? It’s all I’ve ever really known. And I do it because Dad wants me to, and because I’m good at it, but…” His mouth dries out; his clammy hands realign on the wheel. Castiel is watching him closely now. “I don’t want to do it because I don’t have another choice, you know? I don’t want to be trapped under it. I want to get out one day.”

            “Dean,” Castiel says, quietly, his voice nearly a rasp.

            “And I mean, Sam gets to get out,” Dean says, talking too fast now, but he can’t seem to stop. Castiel’s still listening. “Sammy gets to get away, settle down with a girl, get an actual job. Why do I…why should I…”

            Castiel’s hand flits to his wrist, his touch feather-light—a small movement of consolation, and although it seems like nothing, Dean sees it for what it is. Castiel knows all this, acknowledges it. Maybe they’ve even had this conversation before.

            “Shit,” Dean says, jerking his hand away from Castiel’s. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I don’t usually…it’s stupid—”

            “You don’t deserve this life, Dean,” Castiel says. “You deserve more than the life you were born into.”

            “Do I?” Dean whispers, keeping his gaze forward, glued to the pocks and holes in the road.

            “Do you deserve—”

            “No,” Dean says, still not looking at Castiel. “Do I get out?”

            Castiel goes silent, and when Dean turns to look at him, Castiel’s gazing back at him with infinite sadness.

            “I don’t, do I,” Dean says, which he’d been always known, he’d _always_ known that but his throat closes up tightly anyway, like that horrible lump you get when you’re about to cry. “Don’t know why I’m surprised.”

            “I can’t tell you anything,” Castiel says in a pleading voice. “Please understand that anything I say could alter your future in ways that I can’t predict the full-scale—”

            “What does it matter?” Dean snaps, seized by a sudden fury at the situation, at his dad, at Cas, at everything.

            “Because anything you say or do, that _I_ have directly influenced, could result in your death that I don’t foresee,” Castiel answers, just as heatedly. “Or something else terrible. I just don’t _know_ , Dean—I don’t know what all will change given on what I do or don’t tell you, and I can’t take that risk. Not with you.”

            “What do you care?” Dean says through clenched teeth. “You said you’re a dead man walking anyway.”

            The words are mean and intended to hurt, and Castiel blinks twice, which Dean imagines is the closest he ever gets to looking slapped.

            “Perhaps you’re right,” Castiel says, emotionless. “But it’s not myself I’m concerned about.”

            “I’m just saying, if you’re gonna snap out of existence, the…the _timeline_ , or whatever, is gonna get fucked anyway. So I don’t get what’s so bad about it.”

            “You told me you didn’t want to know anything about the future,” Castiel counters.

            Yeah, he had said that.

            “Whatever,” Dean says.

            They’re quiet for another few minutes. The more time passes, the more Dean feels a lot like a class-A piece of shit.

            “Sorry for what I said,” he finally mutters, refusing to meet Castiel’s eyes as he says it. “Sometimes I run my mouth without thinking.”

            “It’s fine.” Castiel sounds impassive, unaffected, and Dean almost wants to say, _Yeah, everything’s fine with you, isn’t it?_ “I wouldn’t expect you to care what does or doesn’t happen to me when you’ve barely just met me.”

            “Still,” Dean says, gnawing on his lower lip. “It was a jerk-ass thing to say. You’ve got enough shit on your plate.”

            “As do you,” Castiel says.

            The car hits a sudden jolt in the road, and Dean curses in surprise before the car goes silent again.

            “It was reckless and stupid,” Castiel says suddenly, “but thank you for standing up to your father on my behalf. I know he’s an intimidating man.”

            “Got that straight,” Dean mutters. He suddenly spots a small, forked side-road ahead that seems to curve left up into a field, and on a whim, he turns the car off-path, pushing down his foot onto the accelerator to give the Impala more momentum.

            “Are you sure this is safe?” Castiel asks uncertainly, slowly tightening his hand around the door-handle to keep from bouncing in his seat against the jostle of the road.

            “Nope,” Dean says, grinning.

            “Aren’t there monsters out here that are hunting you?” Castiel asks, skeptical.

            “Cas, I’m insulted,” Dean says, turning a flippant grin in Castiel’s direction. “The monsters out here are afraid of me hunting _them._ ”

            “Appropriately so,” Castiel quips, deadpan, “given you’re terrifying.”

            “Hey, I can be a total badass on the job. Seriously. I’m like a Jedi.”

            The road tapers to a halt, fading into a large expanse of open field, the long, feathery blades of grass silver in the moonlight. Dean slows the car down and puts her in park before turning off the ignition.

            “Is there a plan here?” Castiel asks, raising his eyebrows when Dean climbs out of the car, and he seems as relieved at the lighthearted shift in atmosphere as Dean is.

            “Look up,” Dean says, heading toward the trunk. “Ain’t nothin’ like the stars from a mountaintop.”

            “I’ve seen stars,” Castiel says thoughtfully, sliding out of shotgun and closing the door behind him. “I find Earth to be far more inviting. And…warm.”

            Dean hands Castiel a beer, who takes it and follows Dean’s lead to perch on the hood of the Impala.

            “Used to do this with Sam,” Dean says, cracking open the beer-cap with his ring. “Miss that shithead.”

            “I miss Sam too,” Castiel says, taking a long pull of his drink before he blows out a slow breath, watching it cloud up in the moonlight.

            Dean looks at Castiel for a long time when he thinks Castiel doesn’t know it, sizing him up pensively, before he says, “Alright, so you’re an angel.”

            “Established.”

            “What _are_ you allowed to tell me about what’s up there?”

            “God does exist, but he’s kind of a dick,” Castiel confides, and Dean shrugs and nods, unsurprised. “And aliens.”

            “Dude,” Dean says, his eyes widening. “ _Dude._ Nah. You’re bluffing.”

            Castiel shrugs and his mouth tilts up in a small, teasing smile before he takes another drink of beer.

            “You’re lying. Are you lying?”

            “I don’t know.”

            “Don’t be a dick. Please?”

            “There are some secrets even I can’t reveal, Dean,” Castiel says solemnly, leaning back to prop his elbow against the hood.

            “So you can tell me _God_ is real but not _aliens?_ You suck.”

            Castiel laughs, and Dean thinks it might be the first time he’s heard the sound.

            Dean feels something warm flare up in his chest, like an ember that’s gotten shifted on a hearth, and he grins around the rim of his beer bottle, then takes a long swig to mask it.

            “Angels, huh,” he says to himself, and Castiel nods slowly, his gaze fixed upward, almost wistfully, like he’s sifting out the heavens through the thin cloud patterns. “Are they all like you?”

            Castiel, his eyes still trained on the sky, smiles wryly, a slow curl of his mouth at the edge. “No angels are like me.”

            “How many of you are there?”

            “There are—were—thousands,” Castiel says, then his expression closes off with sorrow, the heavy kind that Dean sees on veterans and widows and cancer patients but deeper. Ancient, like a sadness at the heart of the world. “Not anymore. Things…happened in heaven that wiped out many of the garrisons.”

            Castiel looks sideways then, turning his face away from Dean.

            “That must suck,” Dean says, trying to picture having one thousand Sams to look after. “All of them were your brothers and sisters?”

            “Yes,” Castiel says quietly. “They were technically my family.”

            “Technically?”

            “I consider you and Sam to be closer kin to me than they,” Castiel says. “But heaven is my home all the same.”

            Dean’s quiet for a long time at that, just thinking, before he says, “I really gave you the Impala keys, huh?”

            Castiel smiles. “You did.”

            “I must really like you then.”

            Castiel huffs out a soft, surprised laugh. “I like to think so.”

            Dean sips in a deep breath, and he’s no lightweight, but he swears he feels a little buzz from the alcohol kick in. “Maybe that’s a good thing. I mean, hell. God knows I could use more friends.”

            “It’s a dangerous life,” Castiel murmurs, his eyelashes drifting down; Dean’s irritatingly snagged on that movement like a burr on a sweater. There’s something strangely fluid and captivating about this guy, even if Dean would never admit it out loud.

            He shoves down this thought by shrugging one shoulder and swallowing, looking back up toward the sky bleakly. “Yeah, well. Someone’s gotta live it.”

            Castiel sighs next to him.

            “His neck bends low in shackles thrust,” he says softly after a moment, and it’s clear that it’s some sort of recitation. “And he is forced beneath the weight to contemplate—the lowly dust.”

            Dean snaps his head sideways to stare. “Dude, the hell?”

            “A poet I knew once,” Castiel says with a distant look, absently bringing his beer to his mouth again. He doesn’t drink for a moment, just rests the bottle on his bottom lip and stares up. “By the name of Boethius. I welcomed him into the gates of heaven, when he passed. He reminded me a bit of you.”

            Dean coughs out an embarrassed sound. “Uh,” he says, “sure, I guess.”

            Castiel slides him a warm, almost teasing gaze. “Does that make you uncomfortable?”

            “You kinda have that effect on people,” Dean says, and to hide the fluster in his voice, adjusts his jacket collar.

            Castiel smiles, just briefly, but Dean still gets the sense he’s being made fun of, or like Castiel finds him amusing or something. He tries not to sulk as he squirms on the roof of the car, trying to get comfortable as his tailbone starts to go numb from sitting in place too long.

            For a long while, they don’t say anything, just drink and stare up at the stars—for Dean, it’s an excuse not to say anything, given he doesn’t really know what to say, but Castiel seems genuinely interested in it, like he’s picked up an old favorite book or something. Every once in a while, in a quiet voice, he points out a collection of stars to Dean with a name he hasn’t heard before.

            At one point, after a short anecdote about Eridanus, Dean jokes, mostly to be facetious, “What, you make them yourself?”

            “I only created one constellation,” Castiel says in a musing tone, clearly missing the joke as he keeps his eyes fixed upward on the heavens. “But it’s not in the sky this time of year.”

            Something in Dean tilts a little bit at these words, some sort of perspective, staring at Castiel—he’s suddenly struck with the realization, again, that this creature, this thing he’s having a beer with on the roof of his car, is more ancient, more powerful than anything he can even dream up, and it’s…kind of more than terrifying. He’s friends, at least at _some_ point in the future, with something that can move shit around in the galaxy. It kind of fucks him up.

            “Maybe it’s time we should head back,” Dean says, clearing his throat uncomfortably. There’s a strange hum under his skin, unfamiliar, putting him on edge. He’s kind of afraid of what it’ll prompt him to say.

            “Will it be safe for you there?” Castiel asks, and Dean looks at him suspiciously, but sees only genuine concern mirrored back at him.

            “Yeah, I’m sure,” Dean says briskly, scooting his ass off the Impala and heading for the driver’s side. “Dad’s probably passed out drunk anyway. I’ll be fine, seriously.”

            “If you say so,” Castiel says, sliding off the roof of the Impala, and he heads to the shotgun seat without a look back. Dean tosses his bottle somewhere out onto the mountain, listening for the clink it makes on the rock, while Castiel holds his in his lap the entire way back.

            “Just so you know,” Dean warns when they pull up to the driveway. “My dad’s gonna want to tear you a new one if he’s awake, so maybe it’s best if you take off for a bit.”

           “I’d rather at least escort you to the door,” Castiel says, his eyes fixed on the dark slope of the driveway, his jaw tense.

            “Aw, Cas,” Dean says flatly, placing one hand over his heart. “Such a gentleman.”

            Castiel doesn’t look away from the car window, but Dean watches the scowl deepen on his profile. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m only making sure nothing happens.”

            “Oh, I know, Cas. You’re just being a swell guy, I’m sure.”

            Castiel rubs one quick hand over the back of his neck, still looking deeply annoyed at Dean’s needling, before he shoulders his way out of the car with a huff.

            “Hey, Cas, wait,” Dean calls after him, then clambers out of the car. He pops the trunk and roots around, pawing his way through various hunting supplies, before he unearths the trenchcoat and the blade he’d been holding onto for safekeeping. Castiel is by his side now, his breath fogging up as he gazes at Dean curiously, but reaches out his arms to accept the bundle with this creased, tender expression that makes Dean’s face feel blotchy and hot.

            “Figured you should have it back,” Dean says, gesturing to the knife like that’s what this whole regifting ceremony was about. “Y’know, for self-defense purposes.”

            “Thank you, Dean,” Castiel says softly, before he unfolds the bundle and shrugs his way into the coat with a pleased expression, settling into it like the way one would with an old familiar blanket. He slips the knife up into his sleeve, which Dean _can’t_ think is comfortable concealed carry, but to each his own, he guesses.

            “Yeah, don’t mention it,” Dean says, practically vibrating from both embarrassment and the cold, and Castiel seems to pick up on his discomfort; he just turns toward the driveway without another word and starts up, Dean following closely behind.

            By the time Dean climbs the front steps, Castiel’s already perusing a note that’s been tacked with a nail to the door.

            “Ahhh, shit,” Dean says.

            “He left,” Castiel says with a disapproving frown.

            “Yeah, he usually at least leaves a note when he does. Let me see that.”

            Castiel hands it to him without a word.

            “Dean,” the note reads, in John’s familiar, tidy block letters. “Took another case in Nevada. Don’t try to follow.”

            “He didn’t say anything about you slugging him,” Dean says, skimming the words again ignoring the way his stomach gets this sinking feeling like it always does when his dad takes off. “Which is a plus. Maybe that means you’re not in his top 10 of things he’s trying to kill. Or, y’know, top 25.”

            “Does he do this often?” Castiel asks, eyes fixed on Dean and his mouth a firm, unhappy line. Like he already knows the answer.

            “Dude’s busy,” Dean says with a shrug, already chafing at the sympathy he can feel practically radiating off Castiel. “And before you start, save it. I don’t need the pity party.”

            “I wasn’t going to say anything,” Castiel says with a neutral shrug. “But he’s still an asshole.”

            Dean lets out a soft “heh” as he jiggles the lock of the front door and budges it open. “Don’t disagree with you there. But hey, I still love the old man, even if he can be a bit of a dick.”

            “Believe me,” Castiel says when they step into the dark of the cabin. “I understand how it is. Loyalty to a deadbeat father, I mean.”

            “Yeah?” Dean says, then catches himself when he remembers who he’s talking to. He kind of chokes on his next words. “Y—please don’t tell me you mean God.”

            Castiel gives a faint half-smile, barely visible in the moonlight through the windows. “As I said, he’s also kind of a dick.”

            Dean shakes his head in disbelief. Yeah, still too wild for him.

            “I’ve never actually met him,” Castiel continues, heading toward the couch. “Only been told stories.”

            “That sucks,” Dean says with real sympathy, following after him. “But you like…you at least know he’s real?”

            “I came into being one way or another,” Castiel says, like that clears everything up.

            “Cas,” Dean says with a small, self-pleased grin, “let me tell you a little something about the birds and the bees...”

            Castiel scowls in his direction, but there’s no real heat behind it—it’s fond, more than anything. There’s something in Dean that gives a little jitter that he can actually tell the difference.

            For a moment, Castiel’s just gazing at him, the teasing glare fading, leaving just open appraisal, still with that soft edge, like he can see beyond Dean’s skin. Dean stares back, feeling that little flutter return with more ticklish force.

            Castiel breaks away first, casting his eyes down and heading for the couch without looking at him again.

             “Hey, man, you don’t need to take the couch,” Dean protests. “Seriously, I can crash there. There’s a bed in one of the rooms.”

            “No,” Castiel says firmly, his eyes sweeping Dean up and down. “You need a good night’s rest. I’ll probably be gone in the morning, anyway.”

            Dean nods and swallows down the lump of disappointment that forms in his throat. Not like he cares.

            He hears a soft huff, a quiet “oh,” from Castiel, and when he turns, Castiel is staring at him with a heavy expression, gold light trickling up his collarbone, up his neck, curling along his jaw.

            “I’m sorry,” Castiel says, the light pouring out from his teeth when he opens his mouth. “Dean, I’m—”

            “No, it’s okay,” Dean says, taking a quick step back when the light illuminates the roots of Castiel’s hair like sparks. “I’ll—I mean, I’ll see you soon, right?”

            Castiel just looks at him sadly before he nods, once. “Soon.”

            Dean closes his eyes so he won’t have to watch Castiel vanish.

            “You suck at goodbyes,” he says, eyes shut, to the empty room, and when he opens them again, Castiel is gone.


	4. Chapter 4

**A few craptastic months later**

            By the time June rolls around, Dean is fine. Really. That’s what he tells Sam, it’s what he tells Bobby; it’s not like his dad asks that often, but when he does, yeah, he’s good. He’s _damn_ good. Peachy keen, even. Summer’s always easier for Dean, blowing through warm tiny Missouri towns at 75 and pretending he’s in the Old West and the Impala is the horsepower that can get him anywhere.

            He doesn’t mind being on his own. Every once in a while, he’ll meet up with an old buddy for a drink when he’s in the right parts, but most of them are his dad’s friends—either hunting buddies or jarheads that talk too much about the good old days. But Dean doesn’t really have friends of his own, which is fine. He moves around too much for them anyway.

            June’s not crazy, just some small salt-n’-burns that you blink and miss if you’re not tracking local news—or if you’re not tapped in to the matrix like his dad and Bobby are. His dad’s still picking up ghost threads on whatever had killed Mom, and Dean’s never had the stones to tell him that he thinks the whole thing is an endless cold case. But it’s his dad’s Sisyphean task, not his, so he shuts up and lets John do whatever the hell he wants.

            What that means for Dean is that he gets delegated the shitty little odd jobs that Dad and Bobby don’t want, which he doesn’t mind too much. It gets kind of boring, actually, save for a couple rawheads and a chupacabra here and there.

            Dean almost thanks God when Sam calls him while he’s camped out in a bar on a hot, windless Tuesday afternoon in the middle of June. Almost, except Dean doesn’t believe in that crap.

            Well. Except for Cas. And everything he’d said. But Dean tries not to think about Cas anymore, or the way he’d looked at Dean that last time before he’d vanished.

            “Sammy,” Dean says when he picks up, trying to keep the happiness clear out of his voice when Sam returns the greeting on the other line. He clears his throat and makes his voice gruffer. “What’s goin’ on? You staying out of trouble?”

            “Yeah,” Sam says, and maybe it’s because they haven’t talked in a while that Dean thinks his voice sounds deeper, more mature.

            The original warm and fuzzies Dean had gotten at hearing Sam’s voice quickly sober up and die out when he belatedly catches the grim tone on the receiving end. “I’m guessing you didn’t call to shoot the shit.”

            “Not exactly,” Sam says hesitantly, then he pauses. “Although I guess I should do that more often, huh?”

            _Save it,_ Dean wants to say, but he swallows and says, “I wouldn’t mind.”

            There’s a beat of silence that feels like a whole minute.

            “I’ve got a lead on the Mo Tanner case,” Sam says, just as Dean asks to break the silence, “You staying in California for the summer?”

            “You first,” Sam says, after another awkward pause.

            “Oh, uh, I guess I was just. You know. Wondering what your summer plans are,” Dean says, squinting out into the sun pattern dappling on the bar window. The ‘o’ on the neon OPEN sign flickers neon red, on and off. “Aren’t you college kids usually done with classes by now?”

            “Oh,” Sam says, after another pause. “Yeah. I uh, finished finals a few weeks ago.”

            Dean perks up, feeling his shoulders straighten from where he’s slumped over the high-top table. “Sweet. I can drive out there and pick you up if you need a ride. Dad said he had a few cases for me out west anyway—”

            “Dean,” Sam interrupts, sounding uncomfortable, and Dean stops. There’s another horrible silence, and Dean, with a sinking feeling, knows what’s coming. Something vindictive and bleak in him waits to hear Sam’s excuses anyway.

            “I’m gonna stay in California this summer,” Sam says with a deep exhalation, like he’s steeling himself for Dean’s reaction. “I’m sorry. You know I’d like to see you, but I’ve—I’m taking some classes to fill my core credits and I’ve already leased an apartment with Jess through December.”

            “Oh,” Dean says in a punched-out noise, trying desperately not to sound too shafted. He fiddles with a straw wrapper, twisting it around his finger until the blood circulation cuts off. “Yeah, no, that’s cool. Should’ve figured you already had…plans.”

            Sam lowers his voice, even though Dean’s pretty sure he’s not in public. “I’m…I’m not a hunter, Dean. I don’t do that, not anymore.”

            Dean feels an attempt at a smile twist up his lip, but it feels more like a sneer. “Guess you’re just too good for Dad and me now, huh? You’re above that life now you’re on track for the big-shots?”

            “Cut it out,” Sam says sharply. “Come on, you know I don’t mean it like that. I’m just—hunting’s not my thing, okay? It never has been, and you and Dad both need to respect that.”

            “It’s not my thing either,” Dean snaps, and Sam says, after a stunned moment, “What?”

            “Nothing.” Dean closes his eyes. “Nothing. Forget it. You said you had a lead on the Mo Tanner case.” Best to keep this strictly business, as always with Sam.

            He adds, just to spite Sam, “ _If_ it is a real case, I mean.”

            “It is,” Sam says defiantly. “I can feel it.”

            “Oh, and how would you know? Thought you weren’t a hunter—since, you know, you don’t do that kind of thing anymore.”

            “Jesus, give it a rest, will you?” Sam’s voice is biting through the receiver, and Dean smiles grimly in satisfaction. “You know what, forget it. If you won’t help me on this, then I’ll—I’ll find someone else.”

            “Like who?” Dean taunts. “Bobby? _Dad_? C’mon, Sam. They won’t believe you like I will and you know it.”

            There’s a fuming, defeated silence on the other end of the line, and Dean takes a moment to be impressed that Sam’s apparently dedicated enough to whatever this goose chase is to swallow his pride and not hang the fuck up. That’s what he usually would’ve done.

            “Fine,” Sam says, like he’s talking through gritted teeth. “But you’re being a child about this, for the record.”

            Dean makes a face and mouths the words mockingly to himself.

            “Your face will get stuck like that,” Sam says, which was clearly a total guess but Dean scowls anyway.

            “Shut up. You said you had a lead on Tanner, hit me.”

            “Well, not Mo, I guess,” Sam says. “Like I said, the dude vanished from existence. I went to visit his wife with some bullshit excuse about a school newspaper report— _previously_ Cecilia Tanner, now Cecilia Bakerfield. She’s married to another guy now. Said they’ve been married for twenty years.”

            “Whoa,” Dean breathes out. “And Mo’s kids?”

            “Had one son that he talked about when I knew him, Henry,” Sam says, waiting for a moment to let it sink in. “Cecilia’s never heard of him.”

            “Shit,” Dean says with a clenching feeling in his chest.

            “Yep. And there’s more. There’s this girl in my biology class, Laura Johansson. One day, she didn’t show up to class. Figured she was sick because there was a flu going around. Then my professor stopped calling her name on the roll call.”

            “Fuck,” Dean says, feeling chills run up and down his arms. “Fuck, Sam, this is…big.”

            “Yeah, I know,” Sam says quietly. “I looked into Laura’s case just to be sure but it was the same as Mo—no one had ever heard of her. Not her parents, not her best friend, not anyone.”

            “Is this just happening on your campus?” Dean asks, closing his eyes and pressing his free hand to his forehead. “Is it just in California? Or is this happening…everywhere?”

            “I don’t know,” Sam says in hushed tones. “But I guess we wouldn’t know otherwise, huh?”

            “Yeah, true,” Dean says, then narrows his eyes. “Speaking of, how come you’re the only one who seems to know what’s up?”

            “I dunno,” Sam replies. “I’ve been asking myself that for months, ever since Mo vanished. Maybe I’m psychic or something.”

            “Right,” Dean says with a snort, and he hears Sam laugh. “Okay, Boy Wonder. Well, I’ll poke around and see if I can get any information on this, but until this, just stay put, okay? I don’t want you vanishing into any black holes.”

            “Yeah, tell me about it,” Sam says, his voice almost shaky. “And…are we still not telling Dad?”

            “Mum’s the word for now.”

            “Okay,” Sam agrees. “Keep me posted. And, uh…” There’s a crackle of silence while Dean waits before Sam finishes, “If you ever want to call just to…y’know, catch up. I wouldn’t mind that.”

            “Me either,” Dean says, fighting the smile threatening to form. “Bye, Sammy.”

            “Yeah, see you.”

            Dean spends a long time and two beers at the bar after that, tapping his cellphone along the tabletop and mulling over what Sam had told him. If the whole thing is true, then it’s freaky as fuck, not to mention way outside of his element.

            He heads back to his motel a little more sober than he’d like to be—it’s an easy walking distance, so he’d just left the Impala parked out in the lot. He runs a hand over her sleek side as he goes past and thinks, pretty pathetically, that at least he has her this summer, if no one else.

            Dean’s motel room smells like piss and the comforter is a suspicious shade of yellow, but he figures it’s not really worth it to ask staff for another room. He drops his keys on the desk and heads for bed with a yawn, toeing off his boots on his way.

            Something suddenly hits Dean with the force of a freight train, and he lets out an undignified yelp as he’s thrown to the ground and knocked windless. He wriggles onto his back under the weight with a half-snarl, already reaching for the knife in his waistband to fend off his attacker, but blinks when he gets his bearings. Startled blue eyes blink back at him.

            “Hello, Dean,” Cas says in a breathless greeting, still pinned on top of him, his blue tie dangling onto Dean’s chin and tickling him.

            “Cas,” Dean says sourly, his heart crashing louder against his ribs in spite of himself. He spits Cas’ tie sideways for effect. “You know, most people just say hello.”

            Cas pushes himself up with his arms and off of Dean, breathing raggedly and flopping beside him.

            “I’m sorry,” Cas says. “I was experimenting with landing to see if I could control how, where, and when I land. Usually I land about a half-mile from you, so I was trying to aim closer.”

            “Well, you did it,” Dean notes.

            “Indeed.”

            Dean, still lying down, reaches out one tentative hand to touch Cas’ arm. It’s warm and solid. Cas looks at him curiously.

            “Still not sure you’re real,” Dean says, trying not to sound as sheepish as he feels when he pulls his hand back.

            “I figured crashing into you would suffice as proof,” Cas says with a small smile, his eyes traveling up and down Dean’s face. “You’re very freckly. Is it summer already?”

            “June,” Dean confirms.

            “So…”

            “Two months.”

            Cas sighs, delivering a small punch to his inner thigh. It’s strangely, cutely human.

            “I was trying to land sooner,” Cas says, then cups a hand to his stomach. “Do you mind if we go for pancakes?”

            “…what?” Dean says, totally thrown. “Dude, it’s 4 in the afternoon.” And then he adds, probably more prioritizingly, “And I thought you said angels don’t eat.”

            “We don’t,” Cas admits. “But my human vessel is growing tired with the continued travel. The energy that’s chasing me is wearing down my grace—at least, it feels that way.”

            “ _Pancakes,_ though?” Dean asks in disbelief.

            “It’s what I believe you’d call a craving.”

            “What are you, a pregnant woman?”

            “Yes,” Cas says, deadpan.

            And this is ultimately how Dean finds himself at a diner at 4:30 in the afternoon, staring in disbelief across the table at an unshaven and homeless-looking angel scooping syrup-soaked pancakes into his mouth in shovel-sized bites.

            “Slow down, you’re gonna make me sick.”

            “Sorry,” Cas says through a mouthful of food, not sounding at all sorry as he forks more pancakes into his mouth. “These are very good.”

            Dean rolls his eyes and fights against the twitch in his mouth.

            “How have you been?” Cas asks, flicking a cursory look up at him before chasing down the mouthful of food with a long swig of milk.

            Dean watches Cas lick away the syrup from his lips when he answers, automatically, “Not bad.”

            Cas looks at him distrustfully before scraping up excess syrup into a small puddle on his plate and pleating it with his fork.

            “Really,” Dean says, more convincingly. “Just small cases, occasional word from Dad and Bobby and Sam. On my own for the summer, which is nice ‘cause it means I get to do whatever I want.”

            “I wish I could stay,” Cas says without missing a beat, still focused on his syrup like he hadn’t just basically fucked Dean up with five short words.

            Dean chokes out a weak laugh and switches subjects. “Anyway. I’m just in town for the night before I’m headed out west.” West makes him think of Sam, and a sudden thought occurs to him. “Sam and I are working on a big case right now, as a matter of fact.”

            “Oh?” Cas says, seeming like he’s only half-paying attention. He shakes powdered sugar into his syrup and continues scraping at it.

            “Yeah,” Dean says, watching Cas closely. “It’s weird. People are disappearing off the face of the earth with no trace that they’d ever existed.”

            Cas’ fork stills, as do his shoulders.

            “You know anything about that?” Dean asks more quietly, tracking the way Cas seems to suddenly close in on himself, like he’s throwing up walls.

            Cas licks his lips again and doesn’t say anything.

            “Cas,” Dean says.

            Cas sets down his fork, still not meeting Dean’s eyes. “Yes, I know about it. It’s the same thing that’s chasing me.”

            A chill sweeps up Dean’s spine, sending goosebumps prickling along his arms. “What the hell is it?”

            “We don’t really know,” Cas says, keeping his gaze down. “All I know is that it’s happening everywhere, throughout all of history. It’s not constrained to any human construction of time.”

            “What?” Dean chokes out, and Cas looks up, finally, at the near-hysterical tone. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

            “We don’t know exactly what it is,” Cas repeats. “But when we tried to fight it, I ended up on that highway a year ago.”

            “Who’s ‘we’?”

            Cas looks at him directly now. “You, Sam, and me.”

            Dean for a moment just stares at him, his mouth slightly parted, before he swallows.

            “You guys—we—whatever—went up against something that we had no idea what it even was?” he finally asks, baffled. “Who thought up _that_ plan?”

            “We weren’t really offered any alternatives,” Cas says, setting his jaw and glancing sideways out the window. “People were disappearing, and we had a strong lead on what was causing it.”

            “So what _is_ it?” Dean demands. His palms and the back of his neck feel clammy and cold. “Is it a monster? Does it bleed? If it bleeds, you can k—”

            Cas shakes his head before Dean’s finished speaking. “Not a monster. It’s a force, one that exists between universes. When it…slipped in to our dimension, it started to unbend temporal events. People’s births, major world events. Can you tell me about Apollo 13?”

            Dean frowns. “Apollo what?”

            “Precisely,” Cas says. “The timeline of the history of human civilization has already changed and you don’t even know it. This force, this energy—it knows no morality or consciousness. It simply consumes all.”

            The waitress stops by to pick up Cas’ empty plate. Dean orders a whiskey.

            “So,” Dean says, much more calmly than he feels, but there’s something about Cas’ stoicism that puts him at ease. Like even an avalanche bearing down on them couldn’t shake this guy. “There’s a good chance I’m next on the chopping block, right?”

            Cas frowns. “Not a good chance. You have an equal chance as anyone else in the world.”

            “Comforting.”

            “Less chance even, maybe,” Cas says consideringly. “Given the circumstances around your and Sam’s births are…a little higher-order in the temporal food-chain than the average Joe the plumber.”

            Dean opens his mouth to correct him on the reference, before he sidetracks and says, “Wait, what do you mean ‘higher-order’?”

            “Nothing you need to concern yourself about for quite some time,” Cas replies, seeming like he’s regretted saying anything.

            Dean thinks that’s starting to get pretty grating, but just mutters, “Whatever,” and scoops up the glass of whiskey the second it’s put down in front of him.

            There’s a moment of silence in which Cas is looking reflectively out the window, deep in thought, and Dean’s eyeing him over the rim of his glass, before he plunks it down loudly to get his attention. “So, what? There’s no way to stop this thing?”

            “I do have a theory,” Cas says, still not meeting Dean’s eyes.

            “Spill it.”

            “It was intended to work the first time we tried, but I took an unexpected detour, as you know,” Cas says. “I believe—although Dean disagreed—that on contact, my grace will be enough to cancel out this force.”

            Dean pauses mid-sip, blinking as he processes this.

            “I’ve been around a very long time,” Cas continues, shifting his gaze heavily to Dean. “I’ve lived through most of history as you can conceive of it. If anything could neutralize a temporal force like this, an angel’s grace would be it.”

            “So what,” Dean says, setting down his glass, “you’re gonna nuke yourself to take this thing out?”

            “I already tried that,” Cas points out, “but somehow got jolted into your timeline instead. However, I think when this thing catches up to me that it’ll defuse the problem once and for all.”

            Dean’s throat works around a swallow, and he wants to protest but instead says, “And if it doesn’t?”

            Cas meets his gaze evenly. “Then it doesn’t. And you and Sam move on and figure something else out, as you always do.”

            “Cas,” Dean says. “You can’t be serious. That’s beyond stupid, it’s—it’s frigging suicidal.”

            A ghost of a smile tugs at Cas’ mouth, and he drops his eyes to the table. “You sound so much like him.”

            “Who?” Dean says. “Dean? Other Dean?”

            Cas nods, not looking up, still with the barest trace of a smile. “He said nearly the same thing to me. It feels like forever ago now.”

            “Well, we’re the same person,” Dean says, rankled. Something about Cas preferring the other Dean needles him. Almost like he’s jealous or competitive, which is stupid because he’s competing with himself. “Remember that?”

            “Couldn’t forget,” Cas says, with just enough snark to dispel the mood.

            “Okay, so, assuming your dumb kamikaze mission goes south, this whole thing’s hopeless,” Dean says, lifting up one forearm and dropping it back on the table. “Sam’s case is a dead-end and the entire world’s gonna go to shit. That about cover it?”

            Cas sighs. “I don’t see any other options from this vantage point.”

            “And you honest to God don’t know what this is?”

            Cas slowly shakes his head, seeming like he’s hesitating before he speaks. “It…it does have a name.”

            Dean raises one eyebrow. “Which is?”

            Cas opens his mouth to reply, but movement in the corner of Dean’s eye causes him to turn on reflex. An Indian-looking man, tall and slender, is walking directly toward them with unusual stiffness, his dark eyes laser-focused on Cas. All of Dean’s inner alarm bells go off, causing his shoulders to instantly tense up.

            “Cas,” he warns, but Cas is already turning like he’d heard a weird sound. His eyes widen fractionally in something like recognition, maybe surprise, when he sees the Indian man.

            Cas slides out of the booth, rising to meet the new guest, and Dean’s still sitting there with every gut instinct he has kicking him to get the hell out of dodge and drag Cas with him.

            “Hannah,” Cas says, and Dean can’t mistake the wonder in his voice. “You’re not—how are you here? Did you follow me?”

            “I believe you are mistaken, Castiel,” the Indian man says. His face is so unnaturally stone-smooth that something in Dean kind of crawls. “We’ve never met before.”

            Cas frowns, starting to back up toward the table. “We’ve fought together, traveled together—do you not remember?”

            “I have no personal recollection of any of those things,” Hannah says with the same dead, hollow expression, like he’s a talking robot. “I have been sent by heaven’s orders to exterminate you.”

            “Whose orders?” Cas demands, starting to bristle, and Dean subtly reaches for the gun tucked on the inside of his waistband, every muscle in him poised for attack. “And why?”

            “You are an aberration,” Hannah says, his lip curling in the first attempt at expression that Dean’s seen so far. “You are not the Castiel that currently exists in heaven, yet you are clearly some form of Castiel. Two cannot exist at once.”

            Cas holds up one placating hand toward Hannah, his lower back pressed against the table now. “Hannah, I can explain—”

            “By traveling backward in the temporal stream and deliberately tampering with human subjects to alter future events, you are practicing disobedience,” Hannah keeps going, like he’s reading directly from a stuffy manual. “This offense, as you know, is punishable by termination.”

            “Hannah,” Cas says in a low voice. Dean looks around; people are starting to stare, swiveling curiously to observe the commotion. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

            Hannah flicks his wrist, and a knife slides into his palm from his sleeve. Dean’s hand tightens on his gun.

            “Angels aren’t even supposed to be on earth,” Cas says, sounding perplexed, his gaze fixed on the knife. “I was the first.”

            “Precisely,” Hannah says. “Angels are not supposed to be on earth, not in mortal incarnations. I’ve been sent in a human vessel to remedy the violation before returning home.”

            “This mission,” Cas says through his teeth, his hand white-knuckling on the edge of the table, “is worth more than you even know. If you kill me, it all goes up in smoke.”

            Hannah raises his knife in a quick move to strike, and Dean doesn’t think, just pulls out the gun and clicks back the safety, pointed at the center of Hannah’s forehead. People in the restaurant start to yell and scream, scrambling for the exits—it’s all distant, fuzzy white noise to Dean as Hannah turns to fix blank eyes on him.

            “Make a move on him and I’ll shoot,” Dean says, ignoring the way his hand shakes on the gun and hoping Hannah doesn’t see it either.

            “Dean,” Cas breathes out, as if Hannah won’t hear him. “Put that away. It won’t hurt him, it’ll only make him angry.”

            Hannah cocks his head, seeming almost amused now—in an annoying, condescending kind of way. “A human. How…interesting.” He straightens, positioning his knife between both Cas and Dean. “Our mission is to protect humans, boy. Not hurt them. Do not test me.”

            “You wouldn’t dare lay a finger on him,” Cas says in a low growl, seeming pissed off for the first time. “You know what he is.”

            Hannah swivels his head to look at Cas again, owl-like. “Yes. Which is precisely why you must be eliminated for your interaction with him. This is _not_ supposed to happen, Castiel. It’s not in the plan.”

            Cas locks his jaw, taking an aggressive step toward Hannah until he’s nearly nose-to-nose with him. “Fuck the plan.”

            Hannah lashes out with the knife and Cas leaps back, the blade catching him on the arm as he does. Dean watches, frozen, as Cas hisses and clamps a hand to the blood that starts to trickle sluggishly from his sleeve.

            Cas glares up at Hannah as they begin to circle each other, Hannah’s knife gleaming red with Cas’ blood.

            “Hannah,” Cas says again through clenched teeth. “You are my friend. Please don’t make me hurt you.”

            “Angels know no friendship,” Hannah says, narrowing his eyes. “Only loyalty to our Father and His mission.”

            “You have much to learn, then,” Cas answers, and the familiar silver blade slides out from his sleeve into his palm.

            Heart hammering, Dean slips out of the booth as quietly as he can, crouching close to the ground and grabbing for the back-up knife he has in his back pocket.

            Cas’ expression has twisted into something pained now—from either his injuries or from something else, Dean’s not sure. “Don’t make me do this, Hannah. We still have history to live.”

            “I am completing the mission I was sent to do,” Hannah says, still circling Cas to get an angle on him. “Attempting to weaken my resolve with sentiment is a futile endeavor.”

            Cas’ eyes catch Dean’s over Hannah’s shoulder, just a brief flash of acknowledgment, but long enough for Hannah to whirl with a snarl, and for just a second, Dean catches a glimpse of true heavenly wrath in his eyes.

            Dean almost shits his pants, basically.

            Hannah advances on him in a quick, lithe movement, and he hears Cas yell something as he scrambles back and throws up his arms to defend himself.

            “Boy,” Hannah snarls as he fastens a superhumanly strong hand in his collar and yanks him up from the floor. “I warned you.”

            “Eat me,” Dean suggests, still struggling to squirm away from his iron grip.

            Hannah’s suddenly yanked off him and spun around, and when Dean stops seeing stars, he manages to make out Cas holding a blade to Hannah’s throat.

            “You’re an abomination,” Hannah spits out over the blade, where Cas is struggling to keep a grip on him. “Our brethren will show you no mercy, regardless of whether you kill me or not.”

            “I don’t want to kill you,” Cas says, huffing out a growl of effort as Hannah tries to twist away from grasp again. “But I have no doubt you’ll come back for Dean to finish this, and I won’t have that.”

            There’s a sudden hum of electricity, starting in a low whine and pitching up in decibel and intensity until Dean gives a shout and clamps hands to his ears to block it. The glass on the fluorescent light above their table blows out, and all the windows of the diner crack straight through with loud splintering noises.

            “Stop,” a voice booms out, ringing around the empty restaurant, and for just a moment, Cas and Hannah stop struggling, turning to look at the new guest.

            Cas swears.

            Dean’s pretty sure his ears are bleeding—his whole head’s ringing like a thousand church bells and his vision’s still swimming. He squints to make out the new attacker. It’s a woman in her late 50s or 60s—silver-haired, piercing blue eyes, a deadened expression that mirrors Hannah’s.

            Cas drops Hannah and backs up, looking trapped for the first time.

            “Great,” Dean says, and can barely hear himself talk through the high-pitched ringing in his ears. “Who the hell are you supposed to be?”

            The woman turns to fix him with a cold, appraising look—completely void of emotion, yet eerily familiar all the same. Dean’s skin downright crawls.

            “My name is Castiel,” the woman says. “The real Castiel.”

            Dean stares, then slowly turns to look at Cas, whose eyes are narrowed, fixed on his past self. “This lady for real?”

            “I was curious to see the imposter, so Zachariah sent me to assist you, Hannah,” Castiel says, looking over Cas with removed interest, almost disdain. She focuses closer, and her expression seems to shift to something like horror, even though none of her facial features actually move. “You’re barely recognizable—hardly even an angel.”

            Cas glares back at Castiel defiantly, still ragged and bleeding. “You know nothing, not yet. Not truly.”

            “I could never allow this to happen in this reality,” Castiel says, trading a questioning look with Hannah as if to confirm her words. “It’s blasphemous.”

            “An abomination,” Hannah agrees, looking Cas up and down with what can only be described as angelic disgust.

            “Hey, fuck off,” Dean says, drawing the attention of both of the angels and almost flinching at the flinty judgment of their gazes. Hey, he’d been ganged up on plenty of times in school and he’s not about to watch Cas get verbally kicked around by dicks with wings.

            “Who is this?” Castiel asks to Hannah, her brow furrowing.

            “Dean Winchester,” Hannah replies, looking at Dean appraisingly like he’s a new type of interesting specimen. “Older brother of Sam Winchester, son to John and Mary.”

            Castiel’s eyes refocus on him in some sort of comprehension.

            “Yeah, apparently I’m a big deal or something,” Dean says with a flippant, easy grin, mostly because these two are too easy to piss off.

            Castiel narrows her eyes, taking a menacing step forward. “Watch your tongue, boy.”

            “You were such a dick _,_ ” Dean mutters to Cas, who’s breathing heavily and leaning against the table, his brow dripping with sweat and his eyes squeezed shut with pain.

            “I have no qualms incinerating you on the spot no matter your placement in our future plans, Dean Winchester,” Castiel says coldly. “You can be easily replaced.”

            Dean swallows, suddenly unnerved by the wrath, the pure non-humanness in Castiel’s eyes on him. The piercing blue of it is familiar—the unfeeling apathy isn’t.

            “If you were truly me,” Cas says weakly, and Castiel and Hannah swivel to him in near-surprise, like they’d forgotten he was still there. “You would know that’s not true.”

            Castiel’s brow pinches into a confused scowl. “What is he to you, aside from a means to an end?”

            Cas looks Castiel evenly in the eye, and for the first time, Dean notices the bloodstain blooming through the fabric of his shirt. He opens his mouth to shout something, but no sound escapes.

            “I have to let you figure that out for yourself,” Cas says, and slips a hand up under his blood-soaked shirt, slapping it to his chest. His whole body lights up like a sparkler on the Fourth of July, and Dean throws himself to the floor to prepare for the blast. He hears Castiel and Hannah’s surprised, strangled screeches of pain, and then the light vanishes and there’s silence.

            Dean pokes his head up in time to watch Cas buckle, catching the table with two bloody hands before he can hit the floor.

            Dean’s instantly on his feet, stumbling to Cas’ side and grabbing at his arms as he slides to the ground.

            “The hell was _that_?” Dean asks, hearing clearly the tremor in his voice as even more dark blood wets through Cas’ shirt.

            “An unforeseen inconvenience,” Cas mutters out through labored breathing, his eyes closed and his hair sticking to his forehead with sweat. “For as long as I’m around you, Dean, they won’t stop. Angels are ruthless; they don’t allow for loose ends, it goes against their very—”

            “Hey, stop talking,” Dean says, pulling Cas up into a lolling sitting position. “I mean it, you’re losing blood.” He pauses, then adds, “And by ‘they,’ do you mean ‘we?’”

            “No,” Cas murmurs, his voice already fading, “I mean they.”

            “Always patching you up,” Dean grumbles to himself, more out of worry than actual exasperation. “Seriously, you gonna stop almost-dying on me?”

            “You want the honest answer to that?” Cas asks, his eyes still closed.

            “Not really. We’ve got to get you back to the Impala, at least—I’ve got first aid in the trunk. Think you can manage that?”

            Weakly, Cas nods, fixing a hand on Dean’s shoulder as if to back up his claim.

            “What was that?” Dean asks again as he moves Cas’ arm around his shoulder, bending his knees to help haul him up. He’s not gonna admit that he’s a little more than impressed while Cas is basically bleeding out all over him, but hey, whatever that was had been pretty badass.

            “Banishing sigil,” Cas says through heavy, gasping breaths, sliding a hand to his chest to flatten it against the bloodflow. “I’ll teach you sometime.”

            “Sounds good. We better scram before the cops get here, which is—” A not-so-distant siren wail cuts through his words. “—right fucking now, I guess.”

            Cas stumbles, nearly taking Dean down with him, and Dean gives him a little shake as he rights both of them.

            “Cas, buddy, you gotta move or we’re both gonna get arrested.”

            “I know,” Cas breathes, attempting to straighten. “I’m fine.”

            Which is a lie if Dean’s ever heard one, but he doesn’t have the energy to call him on it.

            He practically drags Cas to the Impala, the cop sirens blaring closer with each step, and he all but throws Cas in the backseat and peels out of the parking lot, taking one of the back-exits and careening onto the nearest highway entry ramp toward the motel.

            “Don’t die, got it?” Dean says, glaring into his rearview at Cas half-slumped over in the backseat. More blood ekes out between his closed fingers, clamped over his chest.

            “Request pending,” Cas answers in a ragged voice, which Dean thinks might be a lame joke.

            “Gotta say,” Dean says in a joking voice, trying for levity even as his hands tremble on the wheel. “Pretty inconvenient that you keep falling out of the sky and bleeding all over my upholstery.”

            “I know,” Cas says, sounding guilty. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring this to you. I—” He breaks off on a wet, rattling cough, effectively ending the conversation.

            “Don’t talk, alright? We’re almost there.”

            Dean’s bubbling with both questions and concern—mostly concern, but. Yeah, lots of questions.

            He tries to keep his mouth shut, but as they pull off the highway, he asks, “Cas? Who was that lady? The one that was…you?”

            Cas takes a moment to respond, like he’s mustering up the strength to form words. “She’s within my vessel bloodline. Her name is Clara Novak, and she’s the mother of the man I took as my current vessel.”

            “James,” Dean remembers from the wallet.

            “Jimmy,” Cas corrects in a quiet, pained voice, soft with something beyond physical hurt. “He was a good man, and a good father.”

            “Was?” Dean echoes, pulling into the motel parking lot and aiming for the first open spot. “He’s dead?”

            “Yes,” Cas says.

            “What killed him?”

            “I did,” Cas replies, and Dean’s stomach gives a quick, uncomfortable clench. For some reason, he hadn’t wanted to imagine Cas killing anyone—seeing the way he’d hesitated on knifing Hannah at the diner had somehow reaffirmed that. It’s weird and unsettling to think of Cas as a murderer.

            “I’m sure you had good reason,” Dean says charitably, jumping out of the front seat to open the backdoor.

            With a truly Herculean effort of maneuvering, Dean manages to haul both Cas and the first-aid kit into the motel without dropping either, and he kicks the door shut with his foot once they’re both inside.

            “Wait,” Cas says when Dean starts to move him toward the bed, and with a grunt of exertion, he breaks away from Dean and stumbles back toward the closed door, putting his hand under his shirt again.

            “The fuck are you _doing_?” Dean says in disbelief when Cas starts to paint some sort of weird symbol on the door with a palmful of fresh blood. “Cas, what the fuck.”

            “Protection sigils,” Cas says through chopped gasps, like every breath hurts. “They’ll keep Hannah and me from finding us.”

            Dean stares as Cas moves to the window. “Doesn’t…you know what _you_ would do in order to…fuck it, I tried.”

            “They know we’ll be hiding, and they’ll be angrier than a kicked hornet’s nest, but they can’t do anything to locate us,” Cas says, his hand slipping down the rest of the window. He leans his forehead against the wall for a moment to rest, planting a bloody hand up to the window blinds for support. “These sigils will protect you.”

            “It’s not me they’re after,” Dean points out as Cas pushes off the wall and stumbles toward the bed, stretching out on his back with a pained wheeze once he gets there.

            “No,” Cas agrees, “but you talked back to them, which they don’t take lightly.”

            “Oh, give me a break,” Dean mutters to himself, starting to work off the tattered and bloody remains of Cas’ shirt as carefully as he can. “Were you that much of an asshole when we met?”

            “More or less,” Cas says sleepily, his eyes drifting shut. “But I liked you by then.”

            “How _did_ we meet, anyway? You never told me.”

            Cas hesitates a little too long, and Dean hears the rebuttal for what it is.

            “Another time,” Cas says, which Dean figures is another lie.

            “Sure,” he says under his breath. He reaches for the bottle of whiskey on the nightstand, and Cas winces once he sees the intention. “Clench your teeth, you know the drill.”

            Cas is almost asleep by the time Dean’s finished stitching him up—which turns out to be a grossly now-scabbing, weirdly shaped symbol that Dean doesn’t recognize as any language he’s seen from his dad’s journal.

            “You sleep now, huh?” Dean teases to hide the relief in his voice that Cas seems to be recovering, albeit much more slowly than last time. Cas’ dried blood is flaking on his fingernails from picking at stitches and he’s exhausted as fuck, but he feels like he owes this to Cas, in a weird way.

            “Yes,” Cas murmurs, so quietly that Dean almost misses it. His head rolls to the side, his eyes already closed. “Sleep sounds nice.”

            “And to think you just wanted some pancakes,” Dean says, shaking his head and heading toward the bathroom to rinse off his hands.

            “Can’t catch a break,” Cas agrees.

            Dean switches off the faucet and rubs his hands on his jeans.

            “I’m sorry,” Cas says the minute he enters the room again, and when Dean looks over, Cas’ eyes are slitted open, fastened intently on him. “I didn’t want to bring you into any of this. I had no idea that—”

            “Hey, Cas, chill,” Dean says, waving a hand in a shooing motion. “It’s all fine. Honestly, this summer was boring as hell until you showed up today.”

            “Your priority should be staying safe,” Cas says on a soft, tired sigh, “not thrill-seeking.”

            “Hey, to each their own,” Dean says with a shrug. “I’m young, my job’s a nightmare—literally—my dad sucks, my brother doesn’t want anything to do with me. I could stand to have a little shaking up every once in a while.”

            Cas grumbles something under his breath; Dean catches a couple words that sound suspiciously like “Winchesters” and “self-preservation.”

            “Think you’ll be here tomorrow?” Dean asks, peeling off his shirt and pawing around in his duffel for something to sleep in.

            “I don’t know,” Cas says quietly. “Maybe.”

            Dean throws on a sleep-shirt and gratefully shucks his jeans, stretching to take some of the tension out of his calves.

            “Well, if you’re here,” he says, stretching his arms above his head, “we should talk more about the case.”

            He waits for an affirmation, but Cas is already nodding off when he turns around. On some weird parental instinct, Dean walks over and gently places a palm to his forehead. Cas’ eyes blink open at the touch, and Dean almost pulls away.

            “What’re you doing?” he asks, going slightly cross-eyed as he stares at Dean’s wrist.

            “Checking for a fever, dumbass,” Dean says, tugging his hand back self-consciously. “You know, to make sure you don’t have an infection.”

            “Oh,” Cas says in a parched voice, then clears his throat and licks his lips.

            “Well, don’t make it weird,” Dean mutters with a quick shrug of his shoulders. “Just making sure you’re not gonna die overnight.”

            “Much appreciated,” Cas says, and Dean turns toward the other bed to hit the hay when he realizes that he’d only gotten a room for one. Which, duh, of course he had. He’s been traveling alone for weeks. It’s not like he _knew_ Cas was gonna crash-land on his night.

            “Um,” Dean says, the back of his neck already prickling with discomfort. He hates the flush that rises to his cheeks. “Cas?”

            “Mm?” Cas asks from behind him, sounding half-conscious.

            Quickly, Dean assesses his choices. He could sleep on the floor and deal with a potentially shitty back for the next couple of days. He could drop cash on a different room. Or he could nut up and share with Cas.

            It’s not that weird, he tells himself firmly. It’s just a dude who’s not even technically a dude.

            For a second, he imagines his dad’s face, his dad’s _reaction_ if he were to walk in and see him and Cas sharing a bed, and he has to repress a full-body shudder of horror at the thought. He closes his eyes and reaches for an extra blanket off the top of Cas’ bed, spreading it out on the floor.

            “Dean?” Cas asks, and when Dean looks up, Cas is staring at him half-lidded, frowning in confusion. “What are you doing?”

            “Uh, well,” Dean says with an uncomfortable laugh. “Case you haven’t noticed, you hogged the only bed.”

            Cas glares at him disparagingly. “You’re not sleeping on the floor.”

            “Seriously, I don’t mind—”

            “You’re not sleeping on the floor,” Cas repeats. “Not on my account. Either I can take the floor or we can share.”

            “I’m not sharing a bed with you,” Dean snaps, feeling more heat flood up his neck. “I don’t bunk with dudes.”

            Cas probably already knows the answer, but he asks, “Why not?”

            “I dunno, because my dad says it’s gay. Lay off, alright? I don’t care if I sleep on the floor for one night.”

            Cas stares at him for another moment, long enough for Dean to feel judged and uncomfortable, before he closes his eyes again. “My offer remains. You’re paying for the room, after all.”

            “I don’t care, Cas,” Dean says, snagging the other pillow on the opposite side of the bed. “Seriously, I don’t.”

            He picks up the gun and the alarm clock from the bedside table and places them both on the floor before he gets up to flick out the light. After he lies down, he slides the gun under his pillow and pulls the blanket over himself, nestling his shoulders into the carpeted concrete to get comfortable.

            For a moment, he fights against the weird, formal urge to say good night—would that be weird?—but Cas doesn’t say anything so Dean assumes he’s already asleep.

            He tosses and turns for a while, trying to get comfortable on the hard ground, and he must drift off because the next thing he knows, he’s blinking awake and the alarm clock’s neon-red letters next to him read 3:29 a.m.

            He’s about to fall back asleep, caught in a hazy twilight zone of near-unconsciousness, when he hears a rustle directly to his right and goes still. It’s the hush of covers and sheets being pushed back, and he holds his breath, closing his eyes and pretending to be asleep again.

            There’s a moment’s hesitation before he feels warm hands, so light that he thinks he’s dreaming, sliding under him to cup the breadth of his shoulders, the other hooking gently under his knees. With a soft huff, Cas lifts him from the ground like he’s a sack of flour, blanket and all, and Dean’s still pretending to be asleep, not completely convinced that he’s awake.

            There’s another moment of being in Cas’ arms, held tight to his chest, and Dean has this strange, warm feeling of complete security, like he’s a little kid again. He almost nuzzles deeper into Cas, almost allows himself to with the out of being half-asleep, before he feels the soft press of a mattress against his back and the warmth is gone. A blanket’s tugged over him, settling on his shoulders. He keeps his eyes closed.

            For a second he thinks Cas might’ve vanished, and he almost opens his eyes to check, but he feels, again, a feather-light touch to his head—just a quick brush of fingers through his hair, a thumb rubbed softly against his temple before the pressure vanishes. Dean finds himself aching toward it anyway.

            Behind his closed eyes, he sees a familiar shade of golden light, and he keeps his eyes squeezed shut, ignoring the tight feeling that forms in his throat.

            When he tentatively opens his eyes a moment later, the dark room is empty, only the heat of the mattress under him a sign that Cas had been there at all. Dean breathes out shakily, draws another hitched breath in, and closes his eyes, pretending he’d dreamed everything.

\---

            Seven months pass without word or trace from Cas. So it goes.

            Ha.

            So what if Dean had picked up a copy of _Slaughterhouse-Five_ from a garage sale in Oklahoma? He has kind of a thing for Vonnegut, he’s finding out. He’s already shot through like three of his books, but shit cropping up on the hunting radar and Bobby barking phone orders at him like a drill sergeant effectively kills any time he was already lying to himself that he had.

            The rest of the summer passes in a humid blur of dried-out, dusty backroads and drinking too much, the notable highlight being a particularly steamy weekend with a hot bartender named Journey. He spends the weekend with her, but Dean suspects he’s also just a distraction for her, anyway. Dean had caught her carrying a locket of some military guy and sees the fling for what it is.

 Cas had left him some sigils scribbled on a napkin when he’d left, which Dean guesses is some shitty attempt at an adieu, but he carefully draws them on his side in Sharpie after each shower out of sheer paranoia. Lucky for him, the angels don’t seem to give a real shit about him after all.

            Dean debates staying at Journey’s place for a week or so, if only because he really does like her, but she’s got some bartending convention to lead so she pecks him gently on the cheek and vanishes into the wind. So it goes. So it goes, so it goes.

            Sam doesn’t call, which in good news means that he must not have any details about the case, but in shittier news means Dean’s lonely. John phones to check in every once in a while, but Dean’s learned to expect some sort of requested favor at the end of each call like an incoming punch, like his dad thinks he’s compensating him by pretending to care how he’s doing.

            He talks to Bobby, at least. He even drives out to Sioux Falls when he feels like he’s going particularly insane, and Bobby seems to get not to ask about Sam or Cas—he’s always had a “shut up and drink” policy around these kind of things, which Dean appreciates now more than ever.

            Summer bakes down into a cool autumn and Dean lies to himself that he’s not depressed. He drives and turns up the music loud enough to keep his thoughts on mute, and kills what he can where he can.

            One time, in late September when he’s spectacularly drunk, he tries it out—he tries praying, if only to make himself feel anything beyond numbness. He starts out praying to God, but gets too pissed off in the middle of it to finish, and somehow, the next thing he knows, he’s praying to Cas. Cas is an angel, he reasons, so surely he gets prayers in his inbox like some kind of heavenly IM.

Nothing comes of it, which it’s not like Dean had expected it to, but he finds himself angry anyway. He breaks one of Bobby’s glasses out of sheer frustration, and in the morning pretends like it was an accident.

            Anyway, Sam’s MIA. For all Dean knows, he’s been sucked into one of the abysses he’s been raving about, but Dean still remembers his stupid face, so more likely not. And that hurts like a bitch. But whatever.

            And it’s not Cas’ fault that he’s not here, Dean thinks one morning over coffee on a cold October morning, perched on the Impala’s chilled rooftop, so chilled that he can feel the cold seeping through his jeans to his ass. There’s something about the sunrise, the dusty lights and blues of it, that reminds him of Cas, like maybe he’d like it or something.

            Cas never seems like he wants to leave, but Dean’s still got this weird bruising ache without him. He tries to tell himself it’s a cover-up thing for missing his dad and Sam, given technically he barely knows the guy, but it’s Cas he’s thinking about while the sun rises over a cooling cup of coffee, the light fracturing over dewdrops like bits of crushed glass, and it’s Cas he wants with him.

            Sometimes his dad had said Dean would go on and on about imaginary friends as a kid—monsters he’d play with in the closet, or other “kids his age” that he’d run off with for hours at a time. For all he fucking knows, Cas is one of those unreal figments. The more time passes, the more Dean forgets what he looks like, what he sounds like, and he starts to question whether it, any of it, had been real at all.


	5. Chapter 5

**December 31, 2002**

            Dean, by a stroke of either good or terrible luck, gets invited to a New Year’s Eve gathering with some of his dad’s hunting friends last-minute. John says he’s gonna show up, but Dean knows it’s more than likely that he’ll bail, which is fine. Dean had spent a nice, quiet, half-drunk Christmas with Bobby and the thought of seeing his dad’s face right now kind of makes the corners of his vision run red.

            These guys, Dean realizes when he shows up already two shots under his belt and kind of tipsy, are either really wasted or really stoned, but they invite Dean in from the cold with warm, crowing calls of, “’ey, it’s Winchester, Johnny Winchester’s boy!” so Dean can’t complain too much.

            “In the flesh,” Dean says with a flash of a grin, and this is easy—it’s easy to be John Winchester’s son, all tough bravado and quick smiles and smart remarks. It’s a lot harder to be Dean Winchester, half-orphan with a car as a home, but he’s not going to think about that tonight.

            “You grew up lean and mean, just like your old man,” one of the guys—Nash, he thinks, the guy who owns the house—says with a wide grin. For this honor, he earns an elbow around his neck and a noogie from one of the other guys.

            “Hey,” Dean protests, pulling away with a laugh, “I’m not some snot-nosed kid anymore, Ed.”

            “Sure aren’t,” Ed drawls, looking him up and down. “Last time I saw you you’d just taken your first creepy-crawly. How many you iced now?”

            Dean sucks in a considering breath through his teeth, milking the way all the guys lean forward eagerly on his next word. “Lost count. Low hundreds?”

            This earns him some appreciative guffaws and a cold Bud Light thrust in his hand, which is really all Dean can ask for.

            “How’s good old Sammy boy?” Ed asks, clapping a hand on Dean’s shoulder, and he’s got more wrinkles and more white whiskers since the last time Dean saw him but he’s finds himself actually, genuinely happy to see him. Hunters don’t really get the perks of familiar faces.

            “Oh, y’know Sam,” Dean says, taking a long swig of beer. “Off to be the next Steve Jobs or some shit.”

            “Booooo,” Nash calls out behind them at hearing this, and Dean laughs and squashes the usual urge to flare up and defend Sam.

            “So he ain’t hunting anymore?” Ed asks with a low whistle through his teeth. “Shit. Gotta respect that, though. It’s hard to get out of the life when you’re already balls-deep in it.”

            Dean changes subjects from Sam by asking Ed about his coolest hunting stories, which quickly draws group participation and allows Dean to drink steadily rather than talk. He forces a practiced smile while Nash babbles on about some shifter he’d taken in Wyoming, watching the crowds of people in New York waiting for the ball to drop on the shitty TV screen.

            He can’t help thinking he’s more than happy to see the back of 2002.

            There’s a bang on the front door, and Nash calls out, “John finally show his ass around here?” which earns a round of whoops and laughs, including a nervous one from Dean. It’s been probably a good three months since he last saw his dad, and he hasn’t had a real conversation with him since their hunt in April, in the mountain cabin with Cas.

            Nash comes back to the main room with a frown, looking at Dean from under his eyebrows suspiciously. “Door’s for you, Dean.”

            Dean offers an easy smile again while thinking, _Shit,_ because he’s really not in the mood or emotional place to talk to his dad one-on-one.

            He’s already got a spiteful question about missing Christmas on the tip of his tongue when he heads to the front door, emboldened by the alcohol, but once he turns the hallway corner his breath gets completely sucker-punched out of him.

            Cas is standing in the doorway, a light layer of snow dusted on the shoulders of his trenchcoat, his nose and cheeks flushed with the cold.

            “Hello, D—”

            “Don’t,” Dean hears himself say. “Don’t.”

            Something sharp and hurt flashes across Cas’ face before he looks down at his shoes, sliding his hands into his coat pockets.

            “How long,” he says, quietly.

            Dean swallows, his whole body tingling with some implacable emotion—some cocktail of happiness, bitterness, maybe relief. “Seven months.”

            Cas breathes out slowly, and Dean watches it spill of him in a thin cloud.

            “You just left last time,” Dean says, balling one of his fists at his side. “You didn’t say goodbye.”

            “I didn’t know if that would—” Cas begins, then tries again with, “I wasn’t sure if—” He sighs and looks off down the street, the shadow of his stubble seeming darker in the overhang of the doorway. “You don’t want to hear excuses. I’m sorry, Dean, I’ll—”

            “Wait.” Dean sets his empty beer bottle on the floor of the hallway. “Walk with me for a sec.”

            Cas blinks, seeming thrown by the change in Dean’s disposition. “Don’t you want to stay with your friends?”

            “Nah,” Dean says with a shrug, grabbing his jacket from the coatrack. “They’re not really my friends.”

            Dean shuts the door behind him and Cas follows him down the steps, and for a moment they’re walking in silence save for the soft crunch of their shoes against the fresh layer of snow on the concrete.

            “Are you okay?” Cas asks quietly, his shoulder brushing against Dean’s.

            He could easily lie, but there’s really no point with Cas, so he just says, “Nah, not really,” and leaves it at that.

            “Has something happened?” Cas asks in concern, and when Dean doesn’t answer, he says more imploringly, “Dean?”

            “Nope, just more of the same,” Dean says, squinting down the street, his eyes tearing up with the cold wind. There’s something peaceful about snow at night, the way the flurries catch the streetlights. Dean likes the quiet.

            Cas stops under one of the streetlights to stare at him, and Dean stops too, his skin tingling with the cold, his nose starting to run.

            “What?” he demands, bristling at Cas’ scrutiny.

            “I’m just looking at you,” Cas says, his eyes tracing over his features. “You’ve aged since I last saw you.”

            “Yeah, well, that tends to happen when time passes,” Dean snaps, which somehow sounded wittier in his head.

            “Are you okay?” Cas repeats, gaze still searching Dean’s face.

            “I’m _fine,_ ” Dean retorts, then coughs out a bitter laugh. “Hell, why wouldn’t I be? My dad doesn’t want anything to do with me and neither does my brother, and it’s fucking Christmas and I’ve got no one to spend it with. I’m dandy, Cas, thanks for asking.”

            Cas sighs out, his breath clouding around him in a thick gust, and he steps forward to pull Dean into what he realizes two shocked beats later is a hug. Dean’s just drunk enough, just sad enough, just stunned enough to allow it.

            Cas is warm and they’ve never touched like this, with open affection, and Dean doesn’t know what to make of it—he reels for a second, flashing back suddenly to that time he’d felt Cas hold him in his arms, when he thought he’d hallucinated Cas hanging onto him for a couple seconds longer than he’d needed to. He doesn’t quite hug back—he’s not really at full capacity to, but he cups a weak hand on Cas’ side and hopes he gets it. Cas’ hair is wet with snow, as is the shoulder of his coat, and he smells weirdly like mountain air.

            “I’m sorry,” Cas says when he pulls back, looking at Dean anxiously.

            “It’s fine,” Dean says, and all he can think about, staring at Cas, is the way the shadows of his eyelashes, curving downward in the cast of the streetlight, look like teardrops on his cheekbones. When Cas breathes out, Dean breathes in.

            He can hear raucous laughter ringing out from down the streets, the screaming collective chants of, “Ten—nine—eight—seven—”

            “Happy New Year, Dean,” Cas says quietly, still looking at him like that, like he wants to pour warmth straight into him, and Dean wonders if Cas knows human traditions, if he knows just what it is people do at midnight on New Year’s Eve.

            “—three—two—”

            For a crazed, disbelieving second, Cas shifts on his feet, snow cottoning in his dark hair, and Dean thinks he’s gonna do it, thinks he’s gonna get kissed by an angel under a streetlight, but more exuberant screams echo down the street from Nash’s house, followed by the sound of beer bottles smashing in the driveway and the blare of noise-makers, and Dean jerks away. So does Cas.

            “Winchester!” Nash howls down the street, holding up both clenched fists. “Happy fuckin’ 2003!”

            Dean’s voice shakes when he calls back, convincingly enough, “Yeah, you too, man.”

            “Who’s your friend? Bring him in for a brewsky!” Nash vanishes inside, squawking about being barefoot in the snow and receiving a loud hero’s welcome.

            Dean puffs out a quick breath and looks at Cas incredulously, still shaken by what he thought was almost maybe gonna happen. Cas also exhales and flicks a look at Dean’s mouth before he takes a step back.

            “Your friends are fun,” Cas says, raising his eyebrows.

            “Oh, for sure,” Dean says with a snort. “Well, you heard him. Want a drink?”

            Cas tilts his head consideringly before he asks, “Wouldn’t you rather leave?”

            “Dude, I thought you’d never ask,” Dean breathes out in relief. “Yeah, let’s get the fuck out of here.”

\---

            They end up in a seedy bar on the other side of town. Dean’s good to drive, despite Cas’ concerned inquiries, but he basically just pulls the Impala over at the first neon Budweiser sign he sees anyway.

            “Do you know this place?” Cas asks, peering up at the sign through the windshield with a distrustful squint.

            “Nope,” Dean says, shouldering his way out of the car. “But I don’t want Baby driving anymore in the snow.”

            Cas follows him in, shaking off melting snow, and people instantly turn to look, even if just for a second—Dean wants to think it’s just the trenchcoat and slacks and tie spiel, but nah. It’s more the weird vibe he gives off, like Cas is a walking flaming beacon of intense energy and slightly misplaced mannerisms. After spending a good amount of time with it, Dean starts to wonder how other people don’t see the inhumanness in Cas, too.

            Dean orders them two beers at the bar. He notices a group of three guys eyeing them up, muttering and laughing under their breath and clearly plastered, which is enough to irritate him on a low-key level. But it’s New Year’s, he’s out with Cas, he’s got a drink—fight’s not worth the trouble, he figures.

            “You like?” Dean asks the second Cas takes a sip, the white top of the beer foaming around his upper lip.

            “It’s good,” Cas allows, licking away the foam with a thoughtful smack of his lips. “Kind of sharp.”

            “Ad Astra,” Dean says. “From Free State.”

            Cas looks at him uncomprehendingly.

            Dean raises his eyebrows at him, then rolls his eyes. “It’s, like. A famous brewery back home. Just go with it, alright? It’s domestic or whatever.”

            “Alright,” Cas agrees, taking another sip.

            Dean feels one of the drunk guys approaching before he sees him—he’s always had that weird radial ability where he can detect someone pressing on his personal space from like a half-mile away. It’s probably a self-defense thing he formed as a kid, if he thinks about it, but it’s handy either way.

            “Lookin’ to buy a drink?” the guy drawls, sliding an elbow up right next to Dean on the bar and leering. Dean doesn’t make eye contact; just stares at the circle of his thumbs ringed around his beer glass as he smiles uncomfortably, hoping the dude will fuck off.

            “C’mon,” the guy croons, swaying a little in place, and Dean can hear his buddies laughing now, jeering. He feels the tips of his ears flare hot, the skin under the neck of his collar growing warmer. “Let me buy you a drink, handsome.”

            “Sorry,” Dean says shortly, his smile much more clipped when he finally turns to look the guy in the eye. He makes his next words as condescending as he can, tailed by a flippant smirk. “Don’t swing your way, pal.”

            The guy grins, and it’s an ugly look, one where Dean knows he’s being openly mocked. Dean can feel Cas, stiff as a board next to him, and the first thing he thinks is that he wishes Cas didn’t have to witness this.

            He fucking hates when dudes hit on him, especially where other people can see.

            “C’mon,” the guy says in that drunken sultry voice again, his bald head glistening with sweat in the dim bar-lights. “Boy with a face like that don’t fly straight.” He reaches up to stroke a knuckle across Dean’s cheekbone, and Dean physically recoils like he’s been hit.

            “Fuck off,” he snaps, his face on fire as he leans as far away as the barstool will physically allow.

            “Oh, come on,” the guy says with another smile, and Dean hates how he can still hear the guy’s friends snickering, watching the whole thing go down from a safe few feet away. “Don’t tell me a pretty fag like you’s not looking for a nice hole-in-one action tonight.”

            Cas stands swiftly at that, and the guy blinks and refocuses his gaze, like he hadn’t even noticed Cas was there.

            “You heard him,” Cas says evenly, but Dean can feel the menace radiating off of him in waves. “Fuck off.”

            “What are you gonna do about it?” the guy says with a snort, sizing Cas up slowly, and Dean can almost see the gears churning in his head as he does it—Cas is not so tall, relatively not so brawny, so the guy’s figuring he and his two goons can take him, outside in the back if they need to. For a blinding, animalistic moment, Dean wants to watch Cas rip these guys’ faces off, preferably while they’ve still got stupid surprised expressions on them.

            “I don’t want a fight,” Cas says in a low voice, stepping forward to stand next to Dean. “Take your friends elsewhere.”

            The guy has his eyebrows raised incredulously, and his eyes drift lazily back and forth between Dean and Cas before understanding dawns on his face.

            “You his fucktoy?” he asks Dean, making a crude gesture at Cas, and Dean hears the guys start up a round of howling laughter from behind him. “You like to suck his cock?”

            Dean snaps up from his seat, red tingeing the corners of his vision, only temporarily grounded by Cas putting a hand in front of him to block him and saying quietly, so only he can hear, “Dean, don’t.”

            “ _Fuck_ you,” Dean spits out, and the guy just tosses his head back and laughs.

            “There a problem over here, boys?” the bartender asks, sliding his hands onto the counter threateningly and leaning over. “Not tryin’ to pick a fight, are we?”

            “No,” Cas says coldly. “We were just leaving.”

            The drunk guy waggles his fingers at Dean, and Cas has to physically restrain him to drag him from the bar.

            “You should’ve let me take him,” Dean says the second they’re outside, cold air biting against his hot cheeks. “I would’ve ripped his fucking head off and you know it.”

            “What would that have accomplished?” Cas asks, quirking an eyebrow, but he seems to get it, if the angry, tight way his mouth is drawn means anything.

            “Accomplished ridding the earth of one more scumbag, that’s fucking _what_.” Still shaking with anger, Dean stoops to the ground on a moment of impulse and grabs an empty beer bottle, whirling to chuck it into the brick bar wall with a short, raw yell. It bursts and shatters everywhere, the pop of the glass on brick satisfyingly loud.

            For a long moment, neither of them say anything; Dean’s just standing there, his chest heaving and his blood still boiling, and Cas is nearby, quietly watching Dean.

            “Fuck those guys,” Dean says in a low snarl, feeling his hands tighten into fists at his sides. “ _Fuck_ them. I’m not—I don’t—”

            “Dean, I know,” Cas says, shuffling a cautious step closer to him. “But what does it matter what they think?”

            Dean takes another furious moment to think over Cas’ question and can’t come up with a rational answer.

            “I don’t know,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a mutter. What he wants to say is maybe he wouldn’t be so pissed if this didn’t happen on a semi-regular basis, but the words get crowded in his throat before he can voice them. His face is still hot with anger and shame.

            “Dean,” Cas says, stepping to face him directly and placing a hand on either of Dean’s shoulders. Dean realizes he’s still shaking, not looking Cas in the eye. “If you want, I’ll let you walk back in there and tear their throats out. But I don’t think that’s what you really want.”

            Cas’ hands are warm, searing through the leather of Dean’s jacket. Dean’s still tipsy, his socks wet with the snow and stupidly cold.

            “Let’s just go,” he says, shrugging away from Cas and grinding another shard of beer bottle under his shoe with a vindictive crunch.

            There’s another beat of silence while they’re walking back to the Impala.

            “Or _I_ can tear their throats out and you can watch,” Cas says thoughtfully as he follows after Dean, pulling a grudging half-smile out of him.

            “We could tag-team.”

            “Fair enough.”

            It’s with relief that Dean sinks into the familiar squeak of the Impala’s leather upholstery, like he’s coming home from a hard day. Cas slides into the seat next to him, slamming the door.

            Cas looks at him expectantly to start the car, but Dean bites his lip and fiddles with the keys long enough for Cas to finally prompt, “Dean?”

            Dean narrows his eyes and drops the keys in his lap, looking out the window. It’s already fogging up with the body heat pouring off him. “Cas, if I tell you something, you swear you won’t tell anyone else?”

            Cas seems a little taken off-guard, but he nods with a soft huff after a moment’s pause. “Of course.”

            Dean looks at him warningly. “You _swear._ ”

            “Swear on the Bible,” Cas says solemnly, and Dean almost smiles again.

            He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, heat still burning in his throat, because he hasn’t told anyone this, not even Sam. Hasn’t even said it out loud.

            “My dad caught me with a guy when I was sixteen,” Dean says in one quick breath, then closes his eyes so he won’t have to see Cas’ reaction.

            Cas’ voice is neutral when he responds a moment later. “What did your father do?”

            “Well, he didn’t catch us together, exactly,” Dean says, thumbing through each individual key on the ring so he’ll have something to focus on. He can feel the red flaring up like a lantern on his face. “He came home early from a hunt one night after we’d already, uh. Messed around. We had clothes on and stuff but, he…” Dean swallows, looking down at his lap again. “He knew.”

            Cas is still quiet, and Dean can’t tell if he’s being judged or not.

            “It was a stupid mistake,” Dean rushes to say, already feeling dumb and mortified for admitting any of this out loud. “I was drunk and a kid and…and, this guy, he—”

            “Dean,” Cas says kindly, maybe to put him out of his misery. “You don’t have to defend yourself, not to me. Sexuality doesn’t matter to me one way or the other anyway, if that’s your concern.”

            Dean swallows back whatever rambling rest of his speech he had prepared, resting his tongue behind his teeth.

            “I am sorry, however,” Cas says gently, “for whatever shame your father made you feel over it.”

            “He took me to a brothel later,” Dean says, shutting his eyes. “Like, a month after. I think he wanted to make it look like it wasn’t related, but I know it was. He bought me an older girl for the night and said, ‘have at her, son.’” He shrugs, keeping his eyes closed. “The hell was I supposed to do? I was sixteen. I was scared out of my frigging mind.”

            Cas is still silent; Dean can feel his gaze, heavy on his face.

            “But the guy, we—it was only a one-time thing,” Dean says quickly, clearing his throat. “Just, y’know, to try it out or whatever.”

            “Did you like it?” Cas asks, and maybe Dean’s imagining that his voice has dropped an extra notch, gravel-pitched.

            Dean swallows hard again and he almost lies, but for some reason, with Cas, he doesn’t think he should have to.

            “Yeah,” he whispers, clenching the keys.

            “Then that’s all that matters,” Cas says in an easy voice, and the strange, wired moment of tension passes. “You should do what makes you happy, Dean.”

            Dean thinks for another moment, processing something, before he says, with flat realization, “I’ve told you this before, haven’t I.”

            Cas doesn’t say anything.

            “I already told you this,” Dean says, shaking his head. “Future me. Of course I did, you fucking know everything about me.”

            “Dean did tell me once,” Cas says, seeming to pick his words with care. “But that doesn’t detract any from your courage in telling me now.”

            Dean sighs, still feeling like a dumbass and still kind of annoyed that Cas seems to know him down to the exact number of his pubes.

            “It’s not fair,” he says, frustrated. “You know like, _everything_ about me, but I barely know a lick about you.”

            “Perhaps that’s a good thing,” Cas says quietly, and just like that, he kills the mood.

            Dean rolls his eyes and starts the car, making a mocking, somber face that he hopes Cas sees.

            “What about you?” he thinks to ask as they’re pulling out of the parking lot. “You into dudes? Girls? Uh…angel, genderless creature…thingys?”

            Cas laughs lowly, almost a chuckle.

            “I don’t give much thought to romance of any type,” he replies, and Dean’s not sure what it is—maybe some small, subconscious tic that he notices from the corner of his eye—but he gets the weird sense that Cas is lying to him.

            “Suuuuure,” Dean says under his breath. “An open book, aren’t you?”

            Cas hums in his throat, tilting his head back into the seat and closing his eyes.

            Dean wonders, for just a flash second, if Cas has ever had sex. For another snatch of a second, he imagines what that would look like—what the hell _Cas_ would possibly look like during sex, as uptight and reserved and cool as he usually makes himself out to be. It would be weird to see him like that, all unraveled and undone. Dean wonders if his cheeks would get flushed, his mouth open in a soft ‘o’ through his ragged, moaning breaths, maybe his fingers tangled in the hair of someone biting kisses to the insides of his thighs—

            —and _shit,_ Dean is definitely in the car sitting next to a certified fucking mind-reader. He shifts in his seat uncomfortably, ignoring the tight feeling in his jeans, and casts a nervous look sideways, but Cas seems to be well and truly out, his eyes closed as though in deep meditation and his head rolling slightly with the motion of the car.

            It had just been academic curiosity anyway, Dean thinks to himself, and watches the windshield wipers slog at the snow on the wet glass.

            Dean’s eager to get inside by the time they get to the motel—he’s still cold, despite the valiant efforts of the Impala’s crappy radiator, and he’s kind of not-so-secretly hoping Cas doesn’t vanish into the void of time, or whatever. It’s nice not to spend a holiday alone, even if the holiday had been objectively pretty shitty.

            The sleepy after-effect of the alcohol had kicked in on the drive home, but it almost staggers him on his way into the motel, Cas following shortly behind with a long yawn. They practically stumble through the doorway of Dean’s motel room, and Dean’s already shucking his layers on his way in, his heavy, chilly leather jacket and his soaked socks, his wet boots, his cold jeans. Cas peels off his damp trenchcoat and suit jacket and takes off his slacks and shoes, and it’s _weird,_ seeing Cas without pants—his calves are wiry, a runner’s build, and his boxers are plain white cotton, like they’d come in one of those 10-for-$5 packs at Walmart that he and Sam had worn growing up when it was all they could afford.

            There’s one bed and all Dean can think, as he slips under the crisp sheets, digging his cold toes into the comforter, is that there’s no way in hell he’s sleeping on the floor, and if the warmth of Cas joining him a few seconds later wakes him up a little, he doesn’t mind all that much.

\---

            Dean wakes up the next morning with a sleeping Cas next to him and a _raging_ hard-on.

            For a second, he just lies on his stomach, face mashed into the pillow in denial even if his hips tilt a little into the sheets, seeking even the barest hint of friction.

            It’s not like this—situation—has anything to do with Cas, particularly, as in with Castiel. It’s just. Been awhile since he shared a bed with a warm body.

            Or got laid, but that’s another matter.

            Dean, mortified, peeks one eye up from the pillow to look at Cas, still sleeping, also stretched out on his stomach. His arms are wrapped tightly around his pillow, his cheek all mushed by it, a shadow of dark stubble collecting on his jaw and upper lip. He’s still in his dress-shirt and tie.

            Dean gets that weird urge, as he always does, to reach out and poke Cas to make sure he’s real, but he doesn’t. Because this is weird enough as it is.

            His dad would kill him if he saw him, he thinks, closing his eyes. Sam would piss himself. Bobby’d never let it go.

            In this quiet bubble of morning, though, Dean pretends none of them exist. He watches the sun rise in pink-white stripes against the sheets, and thinks about the fact that he’s warm and comfortable without anything to do for the day with someone to actually keep him company. It’s not an awful thought.

            One bar of sunlight hits Cas squarely on the eyelid with the next shift of light, and he full-body flinches before his eyes crack open. Dean’s paralyzed for a moment, wondering if he should do a possum thing where he pretends he’s dead or asleep, but it’s too late—Cas’ eyes float sleepily up to his and lock, sharpening after a second with recognition.

            “Hey,” Cas says, in a gravelly-deep sleep voice.

            “Hey,” Dean all but chokes out.

            Cas makes this snuffling, groaning little noise and slowly tilts his head to face the other direction, his neck cracking with the movement. In a completely bizarre human movement, Cas curves up into this weird upward-facing dog position, his back giving a series of soft pops, before he stretches back out on the mattress, closing his eyes again.

            “I’m sorry,” he says to Dean with his eyes still shut. “I know you don’t like sharing beds with people.”

            “Nah, it’s cool,” Dean says, clearing his throat uncomfortably. “You don’t kick or throw punches in your sleep like Sam does, so we’re good.”

            Eyes still closed, Cas’ mouth curls up and he huffs out a soft chuckle through his nose.

            “Are you still an angel?” Dean asks, which is probably heavy conversation for eight in the morning, but the question’s out before he can stop it. Cas’ eyes slowly slit open.

            “Mostly,” he answers, his voice still crackling with sleep. “Why?”

            “I dunno,” Dean says, resting his cheek against his pillow. “You don’t act like it. I mean, you never really did, but especially now.”

            “Mmm,” Cas says. His eyes drift shut again. “Angels aren’t usually this tired, speaking from experience.”

            “Speaking of angels,” Dean remembers, “how come we’re not blasted from existence right now? Thanks to your, uh, buddies.”

            Without speaking, eyes still closed, Cas twists onto his back and hitches up his shirt. Dean ignores the way his mouth dries out like a prune in the sun.

            After a second of incomprehension, Dean’s gaze refocuses on the dark, foreign sigil over Cas’ hipbone. He very, _very_ much doesn’t focus on the waistband of Cas’ boxers directly below the tattoo, the white standing out in stark contrast against tan skin.

            “Keeps me off the heavenly radar,” Cas explains, tugging his shirt back down. “We should be hidden from their view for now.”

            “How did they find us the first time, then?” Dean asks.

            “You, I would presume,” Cas says. “I think they’ve figured out I’m following your timeline and are keeping surveillance on you when they can.”

            “I’ve been drawing on those sigils,” Dean says, his voice tilting up questioningly. “You know, the ones you drew on the wall when they were after us.”

            Cas offers a small, fond smile. “Marker sigils won’t help you, but that’s a smart thought.”

            “Oh,” Dean says, feeling stupid either way.

            “Skin or bone sigils usually seal the deal, but as I said,” Cas says, rolling back onto his side to face Dean. “It’ll take them a while to catch up to us, given I could be quite literally anywhere in time or location right now. By the time they catch wind of our location, I suspect I’ll be gone anyway.”

            Dean nods, trying to ignore the slight pang in his chest that those words render.

            “Mind if I shower?” Cas asks, tipping his head sideways to look at Dean.

            “Uh, you don’t need my permission,” Dean says, watching as Cas rolls sideways into a standing position before stretching his arms above his head in a surprisingly lithe movement. “Although do you really need to?”

            Cas glances over his shoulder with a raised eyebrow. “Technically no, but my body still smells like travel and blood. Besides, I like showering.”

            He reaches up to tug off his shirt, and Dean catches a glimpse of the dimples at the base of his back before he quickly flips over on his other side, his face annoyingly hot.

            He’s just showering, Dean thinks. Not giving a fucking striptease.

            Cas seems to sense Dean’s discomfort, because when Dean peeks back over his shoulder, he’s already headed toward the bathroom, his bare shoulders giving a quick roll. When he shuts the door behind him, Dean breathes out a fast sigh of relief.

            A second later, he hears the water start up.

            For a second, he lies there staring at the ceiling, not wanting to move, before he finally sighs and reaches toward the bedside table. He grapples around for his cellphone for a second and flips it open.

            He blinks when he sees three missed calls from Bobby.

            “Shit,” he mutters, rubbing some stray sleep off his eyelid and punching in the dial-back number.

            The phone rings out four times before Bobby picks up, breathing hard into the receiver.

            “Bobby, what’s going on?” Dean asks, feeling his heart starting to pound against his chest.

            “I’ll tell you what’s goin’ on,” Bobby growls, sounding winded. “Your angel pal just tore apart my whole fucking house.”

            Dean’s stomach kind of drops to the soles of his feet. “ _What?_ ”

            “Showed up and blew through the place looking for you. I escaped with a couple of scratches, but—”

            “That’s impossible,” Dean interrupts before Bobby can finish. “Cas has been with me the whole time.”

            “—but I’m fine, thanks for askin’,” Bobby finishes, dourly.

            “What did this angel look like? Are you sure it was Cas?”

            “Said as much,” Bobby says, still puffing through the line. “But in a woman’s body this time. Had another guy with her, and it didn’t look like they were taking prisoners.”

            “ _Fuck,_ ” Dean says, banging his head back twice against the headboard with hollow thuds. “Fuck, fuck.”

            “Thought you said he could be trusted.”

            “He _can,_ ” Dean says quickly. “I do trust him, I mean—it’s—it’s Cas from the _past,_ apparently he and his other dick friends have a bounty out on our heads.”

            “Is he with you right now?” Bobby asks, and Dean hates the note of suspicion in his voice.

            “He’s…” Dean swallows, throat dry as he glances to the closed bathroom door. “Busy.”

            “Put him on.”

            “I said he’s busy.”

            “I don’t care if he’s lassoing the fuckin’ moon, put him on the damn phone, Dean.”

            Dean sighs and rolls to his feet, going to the bathroom and pounding on the door. “Cas.”

            There’s no response, just the sound of the shower spray hissing behind the door.

            Dean knocks harder, his knuckles hurting with the force. “ _Cas._ C’mon, open up, Bobby needs to talk to you.”

            Again, no response, and Dean starts to get that deadweight feeling again, like a sinking rock is plummeting through his chest.

            Dean takes a step back, squaring his foot against the wood before he kicks hard enough to shatter the bolt, the door busting open.

            He almost expects to see Cas there, to whip around and accuse him for bursting in on his privacy, but what did Dean fucking expect—the shower’s empty, the water still running and gurgling in the drain.

            “Shit,” Dean hisses, his palm going to his forehead.

            “Dean?” he hears Bobby ask through the receiver. “What’s going on?”

            “Cas is gone,” Dean says, taking two wide steps over to punch off the shower dial. “Goddammit.”

            “Awful convenient,” Bobby says, voice dripping with sarcasm.

            “Bobby, listen,” Dean says, pinching the bridge of his nose and squeezing his eyes shut. “I know what it looks like, alright, but this isn’t the Cas I know after you. Or, after me, I guess. The Cas from the future has been helping me, he’s been…protecting me.”

            “Well, I don’t care if it’s the grand frigging Pumbah, I don’t want these things getting into my house like roaches. What’s a way to get rid of them?”

            “There’s, uh,” Dean says, his mind racing and ignoring the tiny pang of disappointment deep in the core of his chest, the trepidation of not knowing when or if he’ll see Cas again; as if it really matters, right now. “There’s this…symbol, this sigil that Cas showed me to keep them away. I can head up to Sioux Falls and ward the house by tonight.”

            “You mean you’ve run into these things before?” Bobby asks, his voice pitching up in either anger or disbelief.

            Dean cringes. “Uh, yeah, but it, um. Didn’t seem relevant.”

            “Dean Winchester—”

            “Don’t full-name me,” Dean says peevishly, his patience suddenly at an ant’s length. “It wasn’t anything you needed to be involved with, and now you see why. I’ll be in South Dakota by nightfall.”

            “If I’d known, I could’ve _protected_ myself, you id—” Bobby’s yelling but Dean hangs up before he can hear the end of the tirade, chucking his cellphone onto the carpet of the motel room and leaning against the frame of the bathroom door with a sharp, heavy breath. Slowly, tipping his head back, he slides down the doorframe until he’s sitting on the bathroom floor, his hands dangling between his knees, and he stays there a long time.


	6. Chapter 6

**May 7, 2003**

            “She’s blind as a bat, but she can smell and hear you coming, so make sure you’re always downwind if you catch her outside,” Bobby’s instructing as Dean clambers out of the Impala. He sighs, long and hard, and readjusts the shotgun over his shoulder, bracing one foot on the inside floor of the car.

            “You’re sure it’s the locket?” Dean asks skeptically. He sizes up the dark school building in front of him, his heart starting to hammer with either adrenaline or nerves, the way his body always gears up before a big hunt by himself.

            “Pretty damn sure, given she was cremated in 1942,” Bobby says, amidst a rustle of papers. “Unless there’s like a lock of hair or a fingernail lying around, which I doubt.”

            “Okay, so,” Dean says, ticking off on his fingers and cradling the phone between his cheek and his shoulder. “Blind teacher ghost pissed off by new construction, locket’s kept in the glass case by the gym, yeah?”

            “Yep.”

            “Is this gonna be one of those things where I get in there and get my ass roasted because you missed something important?”

            “Bite your tongue, boy,” Bobby replies in a near-growl, but Dean hears the humor in the words and grins briefly. “Good luck in there, son. This is just a regular salt-and-burn, okay?”

            “Yeah, okay,” Dean says, and hangs up.

            “ _Yeah, okay,_ ” Dean’s mocking to himself fifteen minutes later when a vase gets hauled MLB-pitching speed as his head and he dives for cover on a classroom floor. “Regular case, freaking classic, _nice,_ Bobby, I love dying—”

            There’s another enraged screech from behind him and Dean huffs out a quick curse word and dives behind a student desk, flipping it sideways in an attempt at some kind of barrier. His pulse is pounding so hard in his ears that he can barely hear anything outside his body, like a sea of white noise, but he tries to hold his breath, remembering Bobby saying something on the phone during the drive over like, _Be awful quiet if you can, because she relies on smell and sound._

There’s the ominous sound of a glass cup of pens being knocked over and shattered, the pencils clattering and rolling across the tile floor. Dean cranes his neck to where his shotgun had gotten knocked from him, a good ten feet away, and slowly inches his foot toward it, not daring to breathe.

            There’s another furious scream, another chucked flowerpot that explodes just inches next to him, and he yelps and scrambles lower behind the cover of the desk, ducking his head under his arms against any of the shattered ceramic raining down.

            More pencils roll, then the ominous sound of fingernails scratches like a metal grinder on the chalkboard.

            _I hate this,_ Dean thinks viciously as he inches his foot toward the gun again, and the fingernails on the board stop. Dead quiet. Dean stills.

            There’s another split second of complete silence before the desk is lifted with another banshee shriek from the spirit, and Dean growls and scrambles back on his ass as the spirit lobs the desk into the nearest classroom wall.

            The shotgun’s still some feet away from Dean now, and he starts to army-crawl on his stomach toward it even as a window pops and blows out behind him.

            There’s another sudden blast of energy, even louder than before and forceful enough to feel like all the air in the room’s gotten suctioned out in one punch. Dean blinks as a blurred figure tumbles onto the classroom floor from mid-air with a wet slap against the tile, and it’s—it’s Cas, but he’s. Really naked and really wet, and Dean is. Now really distracted.

            “What,” Dean chokes out, freezing, “the _fuck,_ ” but Cas is already rolling into a crouch, grabbing for the gun before standing with a slight momentum-caused stumble and aiming at the spirit.

            “ _I_ was taking a shower,” Cas says irritably, cocking the gun and firing with a loud bang, and the ghost screams and dissipates on the spot.

            “Where the hell are your clothes?”

            “Please prioritize, Dean.”

            Cas tosses the gun at him, a small puddle starting to form around his bare feet as his skin drips, and Dean barely manages to catch it with a slight fumble, staring at Cas with his mouth ajar.

            “Where is she buried?” Cas demands, his mouth fixed into a determined line as he looks Dean squarely in the eye.

            “She’s—” Dean drops his gaze, flustered, then meets Cas’ eyes again. “She’s not buried, there’s a locket near the gym—”

            The words have barely left his mouth when Cas demands, “Lighter.” Dean fumbles it from his back pocket to throw at him, and Cas catches it one-handed and bolts from the room like some ass-naked superhero.

            Dean gapes after him for a long moment, still trying to unfry his brain, but a sudden crash to his left jars him to his senses. He readjusts his grip on the gun and reloads, aiming toward the crash when a sudden pressure at his throat chokes him. He lifts the gun weakly, thrashing to break the invisible hold on him, but it gets batted away from him like a yarnball from a kitten and he wheezes, feeling panic gripping him as his trachea slowly squeezes shut.

            The spirit flashes into view before him, an ugly, snaggletoothed smile on its face and its eyes empty blackened sockets, and she leans in to inhale Dean even as he struggles harder, feeling his eyes starting to tear and stream, his head pounding with the need to breathe.

            “ _Please,_ ” he manages to choke out, and if that’s his last word, so fucking be it, and the spirit bares its teeth in a grin.

            “Naughty, naughty boy,” she whispers, and black patches are starting to collect on the edges of Dean’s vision, fading in and out. Dean quits struggling, feeling the pressure building in his head, pushing him toward unconsciousness—

            There’s a sudden flare, a horrific screech, and when Dean blinks, the tight strangling sensation vanishes, his lungs heaving in relief. He sucks in a huge, painful breath as the spirit writhes in front of him and vanishes in a quick burst of flame.

            For a second Dean sits there with his legs splayed and his heart still banging out a jagged beat, trying desperately to get his breath back through deep wheezes. He’s still trembling and attempting to get his lungs back to normal when Cas reappears in the doorway. He crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe, completely nonchalant and still without a stitch of clothing on him.

            “I could’ve handled it,” Dean snaps, but the defiance in his voice is kind of mangled by the breathless squeak there.

            “Yes, you look like you had it handled,” Cas says, raising his eyebrows, his hair still dripping into his face.

            Dean rolls his eyes, still panting and leaning his head back so it thumps against the desk. “Please put some clothes on.”

            “Why? I find this rather liberating.”

            Dean’s 90% sure he’s being fucked with, which he doesn’t appreciate, but his relief at Cas being back and—once again—saving his ass is enough to prompt a lame, breathless, “God, you suck.”

            “I know,” Cas says. “Can I borrow your jacket?”

            Dean cracks open one baleful eye to peek at Cas sideways, but he’s got his arms folded more tightly now and he’s practically vibrating, which—right. Dripping wet plus no clothes plus AC. He also, pretty valiantly, ignores the fact that Cas’ nipples could currently cut marble.

            “Yeah, just don’t ruin it,” Dean says, shrugging off his leather jacket and holding it out for Cas to take. Cas receives it with a quiet thank you and wraps the sleeves around his waist, tying them at his hips, to which Dean almost protests but is still too exhausted to form full coherent sentences.

            “Thanks again,” Dean says, trying to keep the embarrassment from his voice, and Cas smiles and offers him a hand.

            “You know I don’t mind,” he says as Dean gratefully takes it and is hauled to his feet.

            For a second, Dean just stares at him, drinking him in, and Cas stares back, his eyes sweeping briefly up and down Dean’s face before the silence gets awkward.

            “So,” Dean says, making a vague gesture toward Cas’ body. “First time for everything, right?”

            Cas’ mouth tightens in amusement, his lips twitching. “Killing a ghost naked is not the strangest thing I’ve done, believe it or not.”

            “Oh, I believe it,” Dean mutters, shaking his head and heading over to retrieve his phone from where he’d lost it across the room. “I’m gonna call Bobby who, by the way, thinks you ransacked his house the last time you blew into town.”

            “What?” Cas asks with a perplexed frown, readjusting the jacket around his hips, and Dean’s trying a lot not to think about where that jacket’s gonna have been the next time he wears it. He almost wants to laugh hysterically at the thought of his dad’s face after knowing Cas’ junk was all up on it.

            “Yeah, apparently your evil twin tried to Death Star his house, so he’s not too tickled with you.”

            Cas sighs, looking put out. He seems more tired than Dean’s ever seen him, his shoulders slumped and his eyes worn with exhaustion. “I would apologize, if I knew quite what I was apologizing for.”

            “Well, your past self is a pain in the ass, I gotta say,” Dean says, flipping open his phone with a thumb and punching in Bobby’s number by heart.

            When he glances up at Cas, he’s got his eyes narrowed, staring down Dean across the room. “Have you had any more encounters with me? From this time, I mean.”

            “Nope,” Dean says with a shrug, bringing the cellphone to his ear. “I don’t really think it’s me they want, Cas.”

            Cas mutters something ominous under his breath and shakes his head, padding across the tile barefoot to stand next to Dean.

            “Everything go okay?” Bobby asks on picking up.

            “Yeah,” Dean says, rubbing away the blood drying at his temple. “More or less, I guess. I’ve got a naked angel here with me who wants to talk to you.”

            “Do I want to know.”

            “Probably.”

            Cas takes the phone. “Hello, Bobby.”

            “You son-of-a-bitch,” Dean hears him say.

            Cas looks entirely unmoved. “It’s good to hear from you too.”

            “You’ve got a _lot_ of nerve—”

            “Before you start,” Cas cuts in, turning away from Dean and leaving him to stare at where the jacket’s tied open in the back by the sleeves. Dean pointedly looks away from Cas’ ass toward the ceiling, his face burning, and if he sneaks a few extra looks, well, that’s not his damn fault, is it? Anyone with eyes would be distracted, it’s a dude’s _ass—_ “Can we talk about this in person? I have a lot to explain.”

            “Damn right you do,” Dean hears Bobby say.

            “Dean,” Cas says, glancing over his shoulder, and Dean oh-so-subtly snaps to attention. “Is it possible we can make it to Sioux Falls by tonight? I would feel better being around you at Bobby’s house, lest I attract unwanted attention.”

            “We could book it in four hours and get back early morning,” Dean says with a shrug. “I mean, I was gonna stay at a motel, but—”

            “Good,” Cas says, ignoring the rest of Dean’s sentence and diverting his attention to Bobby. “We should be there as soon as possible. I can write out a few more protection sigils so Dean can shake their surveillance.”

            “And me,” Bobby says, snide. “I assume you also meant so _I_ can shake their surveillance.”

            “Didn’t I say that?” Cas asks blankly, and Dean bites his lip to keep a grin from giving him away.

            “Put Dean on the line,” he hears Bobby say, and Cas hands the phone back to him.

            “What?”

            “Keep an eye on him,” Bobby says. “I don’t trust him as far as I could swing him.”

            “Well, I trust him enough for the both of us, I guess,” Dean says, mostly to be contrary.

            Cas tilts his head downward at these words, shrouding his expression from Dean’s view.

            “That’s probably not your best idea, smartass,” Bobby says, exasperated, “but just be careful, alright?”

            “Yeah, yeah. See you soon.”

            “You place your trust in people far too easily, Dean,” Cas says quietly when he hangs up. His visage is still thrown in the shadow of the dark room. “And far too much.”

            Dean shifts his shoulders defensively, starting to prickle at the note of consternation in Cas’ voice. “Look, don’t psychoanalyze me, alright? Consider it a repayment for saving my ass again, or whatever.”

            “You misunderstand me,” Cas says, frustration coloring his tone. “It’s not that I don’t value your trust, or that I don’t appreciate it. I just want you to be more careful so you don’t get…hurt.”

            “Well, thanks for your concern,” Dean snaps, “but you’re not really around enough to act like some sort of emotional guru for me, alright?” Before Cas has time to reply, he adds hastily, “Let’s just go. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover tonight.”

            They clean up the room as best they can, righting desks and scooping up glass shards with a tense silence threaded between them. Dean notices Cas is still shaking from the temperature of the room as he dries off, so he ushers him out of the building and toward the Impala as soon as they’re finished.

            Cas is still shivering even when they hit the road, and it strikes Dean, like ten minutes too late, that it would be considered weird by most people that he’s riding shotgun with a man in what’s essentially a leather loincloth. Plus Cas’ bare goods are pressed all up on his seats, which is not okay on a number of levels.

            “You, uh, you cold?” Dean asks, starting to fidget with the Impala’s temperature settings, and Cas shakes his head.

            “I’m fine,” he says, words clipped by the chatter of his teeth.

            Dean sighs, scanning the horizon until he makes out the flickering neon beacon of a Phillips joint. He clicks on the blinker and slows the car once he comes up on it, then turns into the parking lot.

            “What are you doing?” Cas asks as Dean puts the Impala in park.

            “Well, I need to get gas for the road anyway, and—” He grunts as he reaches an arm into the backseat, palming around until he locates his duffel. “I’m not dealing with you clacking your teeth the entire way there. Also, I’ve kinda got this rule about no asses on my upholstery, nothin’ personal. Just.” He fishes out a clean plaid flannel, some jeans, and a spare pair of clean (…maybe) boxers and dumps them in Cas’ lap. “Go borrow their bathroom. I’ll be in in a second.”

            Cas’ fingers tighten uncertainly in the bundle of clothes. “Did you keep my old clothes?”

            “They’re at Bobby’s. You’re welcome, I guess.”

            Cas nods and murmurs a quiet thank you before he shoulders open the door, receiving a couple odd looks from truckers as he makes his way into the store.

            After filling up the Impala’s tank, Dean hunts through the chip aisle while he waits for Cas, wondering if he prefers sea salt, vinegar, barbecue. Cas seems like a sour cream and onion kind of guy. He tucks a couple bags under his arm then thumbs through the packets of flavored beef jerky, which he isn’t sure Cas will like but he’s gonna make him start if he doesn’t.

            He’s headed toward the front cash register when he feels a hand rest on his shoulder.

            “Hey,” Dean says, turning, “I picked up some beef jerky because I didn’t know if—”

            He’s shoved up against the hot dog machine with painful force before he can even blink, gasping as the hiss and spit of the fryers come within an inch of him, and he struggles, dropping the food in his surprise.

            When he manages to refocus, he finds himself staring dazedly into piercing—and frankly terrifying—blue eyes, and Dean recognizes the white-haired woman they’d run into in the diner.

            “Where is he?” Castiel asks in a controlled, ominous voice, her grip starting to pinch against Dean’s collarbone.

            Dean struggles with an aborted snarl, trying to grab at her wrist. “Fuck off.”

            Castiel’s eyes narrow into threatening slits. “If you refuse to cooperate—”

            She suddenly vanishes in a plaid, tangled blur, two distinct grunts ringing out at the impact, and Dean’s jolted sideways, tumbling against the chip rack.

            “I’m calling the cops,” the cashier yells from the front of the store, precisely as a light bulb blows out over his head and sends sparks cascading down.

            Dean tries to straighten up, his head spinning, and catches Cas pinning the older woman to the ground—with a quick twist and a flip, the upper hand changes and Cas is flat on his back, winded under the grip of the other Castiel.

            “You’re a walking blasphemy,” Castiel spits, a silver blade sliding from her sleeve, and Dean doesn’t really think—just propels himself off the ground and full-body tackles the woman.

            Castiel’s not suspecting the attack, as she gives a soft huff and rolls into the blow, but with a quick maneuver, the back of Dean’s head is slammed into the tile floor. There’s a bright starburst behind his eyes, and he barely has time to breathe before he’s punched squarely in the mouth. He feels warm blood well up behind his teeth as he chokes, and Castiel grabs the front of his collar, hoisting him up.

            “I warned you not to defy me,” Castiel snarls, raising the long blade so it catches the fluorescents of the gas store.

            “Cas,” Dean gasps, the tinny taste of blood in his throat. “Please—don’t.”

            Castiel hesitates, just a quick breath of a second, but through his hazy vision, Dean catches the distinct flash of emotion in her eyes.

            Curiosity.

            Castiel’s knocked off Dean with a loud, brutal yell from the other Cas, his knee tacking her to the station floor as he pins her wrists.

            Cas begins to chant something low and fast, some strange and unfamiliar language that Dean’s never heard before.

            “You wouldn’t _dare,_ ” Castiel hisses, struggling under Cas’ grip.

            “ _Omnipotentis dei potestatem invoco, omnipotentis dei potestatem invoco, aborro te ut, angelum omnium obsequendum, domine expuet—_ ”

            Dean watches, transfixed, as bluish white light begins to pour out of Castiel’s mouth and eye sockets, strengthening with the growing volume of Cas’ words until Dean has to duck his head against the brightness, his eyes stinging.

            Dean hears—and feels—the spitting hum of more light bulbs blow out over his head, and then everything goes silent. For a second he can only hear his own ragged breathing, the thud of the pulse in his ears.

            Warily, he looks up from under his arms, where in the half-darkness Cas is helping the older woman into a sloped sitting position.

            “Jimmy?” the woman whispers, staring at him in dazed incomprehension. “Where—where am I?”

            Cas gently raises two fingers to the woman’s forehead and she slumps at once, her eyes closed.

            “Is she…dead?” Dean asks, shocked as Cas slowly lowers her head back to the floor.

            “No, just sleeping.” Cas doesn’t look at him as he says it, almost like he’s ashamed to. “She’ll wake soon. I’ll call a ride for her.”

            “Is Castiel dead? I mean, old you?”

            Cas wipes off his hands on his—well, Dean’s—jeans and stands, still looking down at Clara. “No. Just temporarily taken care of.”

            “What did you do to…you?”

            “Sent me back to heaven,” Cas says with a small twist of his mouth, a grim attempt at a smile. “It’ll be a while before angels bother us again.”

            “What about Hannah?”

            “I can handle Hannah,” Cas says tensely, hesitating before he walks over to kneel in front of Dean. His fingers gently angle Dean’s chin upward. “Look at me. Are you alright?”

            “I’m fine,” Dean mumbles, rubbing a thumb along the bottom well of his lip to collect the blood there. “You just clocked me good.”

            “I’m sorry,” Cas murmurs, raising two fingers to Dean’s forehead. He closes his eyes, his brow furrowing in concentration, and at once, Dean feels some of the throb in his skull recede, the sting in his lip dulling.

            “That won’t heal everything, but it should take away some of the pain,” Cas says, then instantly pitches forward, catching his weight on one hand against the floor. Dean instantly reaches out to secure a shoulder; Cas leans into the touch.

            “Are you okay?” he asks, staring wide-eyed at the crown of Cas’ ducked head.

            “Fine,” Cas says through labored breathing. “Even parlor tricks nowadays…seem to…wear me out.”

            “You didn’t have to heal me,” Dean says, his annoyance mostly rooted in concern. “I can survive a couple bloody lips and a concussion.”

            “You shouldn’t have to at my hand,” Cas says, so breathily that Dean barely hears him.

            Dean doesn’t even have the energy to answer that, just rolls his eyes and slumps back to the ground.

            “Dude, we’re so fucked,” he says to the ceiling.

            “The cops are on their way,” the cashier says in a strident voice from the front of the store, and when Dean tilts his head up from the ground, he sees a teenage boy crouching by the front desk, his belligerent and scared eyes fixed on him.

            “No need,” Dean says with a grunt, rolling so he can push himself onto his feet. “We’re gone.”

            The second they get outside, Cas reaches for the keys with an imploring, reprimanding look, which only strengthens when Dean resists.

            “No,” Dean says, scowling and keeping the keys out of Cas’ reach. “I’m fine to drive, seriously.”

            “Dean,” Cas says through his teeth, not quite annoyed but getting there. “You’re bleeding, exhausted and most likely concussed. You’ll kill us both an hour out onto the highway.”

            “Says you,” Dean grumbles, but Cas has a point—he’s starting to get a woozy, throbbing feeling in his head that’s all too familiar. He hesitates a moment, long enough for Cas to reach out and snatch the keys out of his loose grip with a tiny, triumphant smirk that reminds him strangely of Sam.

            It’s kind of terrifying to think of Cas driving, Cas driving the _Impala,_ but he figures future him had trusted his driving abilities enough, and he trusts himself. Mostly.

            “Hey,” he says sleepily about a half hour into the trip, watching the way Cas’ eyes flicker along the dark highway. “Don’t you…you know, get sick of this?”

            Cas’ eyebrows pull together in a small frown. “Sick of what?”

            “Well, I mean, you’ve been through this with me before. Right? I mean, me, I’m still learning stuff about you, but you—you already know everything about me. Aren’t you, I dunno…bored?”

            Cas’ voice is fond when he speaks again. “I could never get bored of you, Dean.”

            Dean’s face starts to tingle, and he swallows it back. “I don’t get it.”

            “Get what?”

            “Why the hell do you care about me so much? I mean, you’re like an actual…an actual frigging _angel,_ and I’m—I just, I don’t get the draw.”

            “We still have history to live, Dean,” Cas says quietly. “There’s a lot I can’t explain.”

            Dean thinks, staring at the silvery straight lines of Cas’ profile, that sometime, somewhere, he must care about this guy a whole freaking lot. He thinks he’s starting to get why.

            “Do I treat you well?” he asks out loud, which startles Cas into glancing at him in bewilderment.

            “What kind of a question is that?” Cas asks, frowning.

            “Well, knowing me, I can get kind of.” Dean makes a sloppy, vague hand gesture in lieu of an explanation. “I get scared when people care about me. I kind of shut down, which I’m guessing you know, but I…I know I can come across as kind of a dick sometimes, and that’s not—”

            “Dean,” Cas interrupts him, kindness in his voice. “We’ve both had our fair share of dickishness to each other. Even if you were—which you’re not—I wouldn’t exactly hold it against you.”

            This answer does nothing to either console or satisfy Dean.

            “It’s just.” Dean pauses, taking a deep breath. “I’d hate to know that even sometime off in the future, or whatever, that I don’t show how much I appreciate…you know.” He tacks on a lame, “Your time.”

            Cas snorts out a quiet laugh and tilts his head to look at Dean sideways. The gaze is warm but Dean still gets the sense he’s being teased.

            “What?” Dean says grumpily, folding his arms and tucking his knees to his chest. “I’m just tryin’ to be nice. Whatever.”

            “Thank you, Dean,” Cas says solemnly, too solemnly where Dean knows he’s definitely being made fun of. “I’ll graciously forgive you for the time you stole half of my fries.”

            Dean rolls his eyes and presses his cheek to the cold glass of the window, feeling his face throb with heat against it. “Shut up.”

            “In all seriousness,” Cas says, “you have nothing to apologize for. I like to think that any bad blood that happened between Dean and me has long been water under the bridge.” He hesitates, and there’s a note of pained uncertainty in his voice when he speaks again. “I can’t always be sure, but that’s what I prefer to believe.”

            Dean’s kind of more than curious about the bad blood thing, because he can’t really imagine him and Cas fighting enough to be pissed at each other beyond superficial reasons. He’s kind of afraid to ask.

            He has more questions, a buttload of them, but he must doze off because the next thing he knows, he’s jolting awake to the familiar bumpy roll of gravel under the Impala’s wheels—Bobby’s driveway. Dean squints out the windshield where he can see a sliver of sunlight on the horizon, inking the sky in purple. It’s gotta be like 5 in the morning.

            “Sorry for conking out,” Dean says, looking guiltily over to Cas.

            Cas shakes his head and yawns, putting the back of his knuckles to his mouth to conceal it.

            “It’s fine,” Cas says in a gravelly voice, his eyes drooping. “I’m just tired.”

            “Well, there’s a couch inside with your name on it, if Bobby doesn’t kill you first.”

            Cas groans softly and slumps forward, resting his forehead against the steering wheel and staying there for a bit. He looks kinda strange, like this—in Dean’s clothes, half-asleep. For a second, Dean imagines him as a human friend, one who’s not gonna vanish within a matter of hours for God knows how long. One who’ll stay.

            “Come on, grumpy,” Dean says, reaching over to shake Cas’ shoulder. “Let’s go inside.”

            Bobby’s asleep when they get in, but Cas immediately sets to work, seeming to regain a burst of energy as he goes off to the kitchen for something or other.

            “You can slow down,” Dean says, following him into the kitchen and leaning one shoulder against the doorframe to watch him. “The world’s not ending just yet. Take a nap or something.”

            “There’s still a chance Hannah will find us,” Cas says, rooting around in the silverware drawer with a few clangs and extracting a steak knife. Dean flinches, knowing what’s coming. “I want to ensure the house is protected while…” He trails off, but Dean hears the rest of the sentence clear as a bell.

            “While you’re gone,” he finishes flatly.

            Cas doesn’t look at him, ducking to get something from a lower cabinet. “Yes.”

            “Won’t these…you know, ward you off too?” Although Dean figures they hadn’t done anything to Cas the last time they’d crashed in the motel, he’s curious enough to ask.

            “I’m not angel enough anymore for them to work effectively on me,” Cas replies. “But they’ll sap some of the remaining energy I still do have from the heavenly host and will most likely increase my human symptoms.”

            There’s the sudden click of a gun echoing in the staircase, and Cas’ shoulders tense in readiness while Dean rolls his eyes.

            “It’s just me, Bobby,” Dean says, waiting the extra three seconds while Bobby hesitates before descending the steps in a quick rush.

            “You could knock,” Bobby grumbles, setting the rifle up against the stair railing. “Oh look. I see you’ve brought the destroyer of worlds with you.”

            “Apologies,” Cas says, setting the bowl on the table and rolling up one sleeve so that it rests above his elbow.

            “Did you see the living room?” Bobby snaps to Cas. “All of my shelves are still a wreck, the carpet’s still torn up, the door to the basement’s blown clean off—”

            “Bobby,” Dean says, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “Let him concentrate, alright?”

            Bobby allows a grudging silence before he says, with reluctant curiosity, “The hell are you doing.”

            “I’m warding the house against angels,” Cas explains, wincing as he slices the knife along his palm, then squeezes his hand over the bowl. “It’ll ensure you’re not inconvenienced again and will keep your house and belongings safe.”

            Dean looks pointedly at Bobby, waiting for the apology that’s been clearly prompted.

            Bobby scowls for a moment, searching for a loophole as he watches blood from Cas’ palm dribble into the bowl.

            “Thanks, Cas,” he says eventually, and Dean smirks in satisfaction.

            “No need to thank me,” Cas says, gritting his teeth as the blood starts to thin out. “I’m the one who dragged you two into this mess in the first place.”

            “Damn right you did,” Bobby grumbles, but there’s no more heat to the words.

            Dean and Bobby both remain quiet as Cas rounds the perimeter of the house, dipping his fingers into the bowl to paint sigils onto windows, doors, walls. Cas’ shoulders are slumped with exhaustion as he works, and halfway through Dean runs off to the bathroom to get a bandage for his hand.

            “I’ll heal,” Cas mutters as Dean steps up next to him and reaches out the bandage in a silent offer.

            Dean rolls his eyes and takes his hand.

            “You’ve got to slow down,” he says, sticking one end of the gauze to the back of his knuckles before wrapping it gently around Cas’ palm. “You’re gonna kill yourself before we even reach the finish line.”

            “I’ve told you before it wouldn’t make a difference,” Cas says, shrugging away once Dean’s finished, and Dean just stands there and watches as he goes back to work, feeling strangely rejected.

            “You said you were gonna explain yourself,” Bobby says as he watches Cas methodically thumbing a smear of blood onto a windowpane.

            Cas sighs and sets down the bowl on the coffee table, rubbing his hands together. “The angels are after me, not Dean. I’m an anomaly in the system, given I’m from the year 2015. Angels can travel throughout any period of time, grace willing, but it’s strictly forbidden unless under orders. They know I would never be given the order to interact directly with Dean, given just how much is at stake, and they know by my level of grace that I’ve gone rogue from the host.”

            “Why do they care about Dean?” Bobby asks with a frown, then tacks on toward Dean, “I mean, no offense.”

            “That’s something I can’t share,” Cas says, scooping up the bowl and heading back to the kitchen. “High stakes and all.”

            “I’m gettin’ a little tired of hearing that,” Bobby says as he follows him.

            “Well, _I,_ ” Cas bites out, slamming down the bowl in the sink with a sharp clang, “am getting tired of being hurtled throughout the entirety of time and space toward my imminent extinction, but we can’t always get what we want, can we?”

            Bobby just stares at him, and while Dean’s a little startled by the outburst himself, he can’t tell if Bobby’s more offended or impressed.

            “I’m sorry,” Cas says a moment later, wearily closing his eyes and resting both hands on the counter, turning his back to them. “I don’t mean to get short with you two. I’m under an extreme amount of pressure to right what I can before time runs out, and the angels are proving to be…inhibitory.”

            “No hard feelings from me,” Bobby says, raising both hands in surrender. “I don’t even wanna know what shit’s on your plate. But if you’re gonna smash some fine china, do it outside where I don’t have to clean it or hear it, alright?”

            “Much appreciated,” Cas says with a small, grateful smile, and Bobby nods and heads off to the living room.

            “You okay, Cas?” Dean asks, knowing the answer but wanting to hear it from him anyway.

            “I will say that I wouldn’t mind killing a thing or two right now,” Cas says, turning on the tap to clean out the bowl. “Or smashing things.”

            “Well hey, that’s on the table, if you want.”

            Dean’s being kind of facetious as he says it, but the next thing he knows, he’s hanging back with his arms folded incredulously watching Cas shoot a rifle at tin cans in the back of the auto yard.

            “Is this, uh, cathartic for you? I guess?”

            “Minimally,” Cas says with a soft grunt, propping the butt of the gun on the gravel and rubbing at his shoulder with a pained wince.

            “Let up on the double-fire?” Dean asks sympathetically. “I’ve fucked up my shoulder doing that.”

            “I’m fine,” Cas says, repositioning the rifle and squinting one eye as he focuses on the next can. The shot fires out with a loud bang, echoing around the yard, and there’s something kind of peaceful about this, Dean thinks. Sometimes when he was a kid he’d do this with his dad—he’s got only good memories of it, given he’d been good at it and he can still remember the warmth of the pride in his dad’s eyes when he’d hit bullseyes, like a candle flickering to life in his chest.

            “You’re not half-bad,” Dean remarks when Cas nails another can.

            “Learned from the best,” Cas replies, and he gives Dean a warm look slantwise before he seems to retract, like he’s remembering Dean’s not the right Dean. Dean, naturally, is starting to really hate the familiarity of that.

            Cas takes a breath, focusing away from the cans and out over the horizon, where the morning sun’s collecting heat. “The sunrises are beautiful out here.”

            “Yeah,” Dean says, shuffling his feet with a crunch on the gravel. “Sometimes I like to come out here and sit on some of the cars to watch.” He suddenly recalls the morning he’d sat on the Impala and watched the sunrise and thought of Cas, had wanted him with him. He glances sideways at Cas, trying to be subtle about it, and he’s got his head slightly tilted back, throat exposed, letting the lengthening sun rays warm his face, and Dean feels something ping deep in his chest, feels the same vibration as gunshots on a tin can.

            Cas slowly opens his eyes and as if he senses Dean’s gaze, he turns slightly to look at him, and Dean’s too transfixed to look away, and it should be uncomfortable, the long staring between them, but for just a second Dean thinks he can see the same seismic wave roll through Cas, that same silent shake.

            Dean breaks the strange moment by reaching for the gun from Cas’ grasp. Without a word, he cocks it and fires, hitting the can dead-center.


	7. Chapter 7

**August 3, 2003**

            It’s a while before Cas shows up again, which is fine by Dean. The angels have left him alone since the gas station blowout, he’s got another busy summer doing stuff for Dad and Bobby, so it’s not like he should care, right?

            Sam calls once over the summer, and Dean almost keels over from shock. He says as much, which Sam doesn’t seem to appreciate. The call is surprisingly non-case related—Sam just wanted to “check in,” or something. Novel. Needless to say, it’s a short and awkward conversation in which Dean does more listening than talking, but he likes it. Deep deep down, where he’d never admit it to Sam.

            He also sees his dad once, which is short and case-related—his dad had needed extra feet on the ground to clean out a particularly haunted tourist location in California. Dean had almost wanted to stop in and see Sam in his natural habitat, almost even suggested it to John, but something about the dark, grim look in his dad’s eyes during the whole hunt had told him to keep his mouth shut.

            Today, Dean is suffering. Not necessarily due to any emotional baggage, but due to the fact that Bobby’s AC had shat out under the brunt of the hottest day of the year. The heat index is 110, no wind. Dean’s being cooked alive in Bobby’s living room and Bobby’s sworn enough times in the last hour to shame an R-rated movie.

            “This,” Dean says, leaning back on the couch and grimacing at the sticky feeling of the cloth cushions against his back. “This is what I bet hell feels like.”

            “Shut up,” Bobby says, ruddy red from his neck all the way to his forehead. He mops ineffectively at his face, lifting his cap to dry out the bald spot on the top of his head. “I’m workin’ on it. It’s not my fault summering in the Midwest is like living on the rim of Satan’s shithole.”

            “Or, you know, the face of the sun.” Dean’s whole body feels swampy. He can feel layer after layer of sweat coated stickily along every inch of his skin, wet rivulets sliding down his neck, his legs, his ass-crack. Bobby’s managed to regain enough power to get a small fan going, but it just circumvents hot air so it doesn’t do much. The TV’s fuse had shorted out too, which means a lack of distraction for either of them. Bobby’s suggestion had been to read a book to kill time, but Dean’s too hot to remember his middle name, let alone to focus on processing words.

            Dean lasts another 15 minutes before he (literally) peels off his damp shirt and uses it to sop up the sweat collecting on his hairline and under his jaw. He loses his jeans after another minute too, which allows him a little more breeze down south but has the effect of making his balls stick uncomfortably to either one of his inner thighs.

            Of course, the fridge is shot to hell too, so the beers that Dean grabs a few minutes later are lukewarm and sweating with condensation.

            “Put some clothes on, will you?” Bobby grouses when Dean reenters the living room, but he looks like he’s contemplating copying the example. “Don’t need you wandering around Free Willy.”

            “I’m dying,” Dean informs him, handing him the extra beer and heading back to the couch. “Cut a guy some slack.”

            Bobby grumbles and goes back to work on the AC, taking up a steady stream of cursing again.

            “I bet Sam’s in AC right now,” Dean says aloud, taking a long swig of warm beer. “I bet that fucker’s in a cooled library with a cold soda.”

            “Doesn’t know what it is to suffer,” Bobby agrees, his voice muffled by something.

            There’s a loud couple of knocks on the front door.

            “Frigging neighbors,” Bobby snaps, hauling himself to his feet with a grunt. “Always come sprinting to me when they need somethin’. I’m not fixing anyone’s damn AC but my own.”

            “Aww, you don’t mean that,” Dean croons as Bobby storms to the front door.

            “I do,” Bobby says, giving a few more stomps for effect before he swings open the door. “Oh. Hey, Cas.”

            Dean sits up so fast that he falls off the couch and onto his ass, sending painful vibrations up his tailbone.

            “Bobby,” Dean hears Cas say, sounding out of breath. “Is it always this hot this time of year?”

            “Yep,” Bobby says, with sardonic cheer. “Welcome to hell.”

            “I’ve been,” Cas says in a clipped voice. “Once or twice. And I agree, it does feel similar.”

            Dean recovers his cool (ha) by sitting back on the couch, eyeing the living room entrance and waiting for Cas to appear, which he does a second later, his eyes searching the room before falling on Dean.

            “How long?” he asks in lieu of greeting, his eyebrows raising anxiously.

            “Like three months,” Dean answers, trying to ignore the fact that he’s half-naked even if the sweat pouring off of him doesn’t make it feel like it.

            Cas nods and exhales. “Not terrible.”

            “Not terrible,” Dean agrees. “Although I gotta say, you picked the worst day of the year to show up.”

            “Indeed,” Cas says, and Dean can already see a pink flush of heat starting in his cheeks, a light sheen of sweat beading on his forehead. “This is…safely uncomfortable.”

            “Wanna beer?” Dean asks as he gets to his feet, and if he wasn’t hyperaware before of his balls sticking together, he most _definitely_ is now. His swamp-ass is also at record-level high, fantastically.

            “Please,” Cas says, dropping down onto the nearest armchair with a heavy sigh.

            When Dean comes back, there’s already sweat dewed in Cas’ hair, flattening it into damp curls and sending droplets trickling down his face.

            “This is miserable,” Cas says, gratefully taking the beer from Dean’s extended grasp. “Isn’t there a place you can drive to with air-conditioning?”

            “Too hot to drive,” Dean says, reassuming his damp spot on the couch. “I’m afraid the Impala’s gonna crap out in this weather. Bobby should have the AC up and running again soon.”

            “Mm,” Cas hums, eyes half-lidded like a lizard in the sun, and the way his gaze trails up Dean’s body makes the syllable sound almost lecherous. Dean swallows, his throat suddenly very dry, and he takes a long drink of hot beer to hide it.

            “Any updates on the case?” Cas asks a moment later, pinching the front of his shirt and fanning it a few times.

            It’s too blisteringly hot to even perform basic cognitive function, let alone talk about the Case with a capital-C, so Dean just shakes his head and closes his eyes, secretly hoping Cas is looking at him, the way he’s slowly rolling the beer bottle against his inner thigh so that the condensation will cool him down. There’s something that’s a little…strange about today, almost surreal. Like all of this, even Cas being here, is just a hot fever dream.

            Dean tips his head back with his eyes still shut, feeling the crawl of sweat down the column of his throat. His hair is dripping.

            Cas has got to be downright roasting in plaid flannel, angel or not, which is maybe why after another five minutes of sleepy silence that he starts to unbutton the front of his shirt. Dean, eyes slitted as narrow as possible, watches curiously.

            “Angels get hot?” he asks, his voice parched and deep.

            “Angels feel heat,” Cas says, licking his lips and looking at him directly. Dean pretends not to notice the way Cas’ eyes track the progress of a bead of sweat sliding down his temple, and if he didn’t feel overheated before, his whole being’s in flames now.

            Dean stretches out a knee and rocks it back and forth, trying to get some air flowing on the underside of his sweaty kneecap, and if his balls are making a desperate bid for freedom from his boxers, well. It’s probably nothing Cas hasn’t seen before.

            When Dean opens his eyes again, Cas is halfway out of his shirt.

            “Sorry,” Cas says sheepishly when he catches Dean watching. “I endured as much as I was able.”

            “It’s cool,” Dean says, then grins at his own pun. Cas rolls his eyes and drapes the flannel over the back of the chair, leaning back and placing his forearms on either armrest. He’s got his eyes closed, which gives Dean almost free reign to watch him as non-creepily as possible, the way sweat slips down the groove between his pecs, soaking into the trail of hair that vanishes into the waistband of his jeans—

            “Don’t mind me,” Bobby mutters as he tromps through the living room, causing Dean to jerk away, suddenly terrified that Bobby had caught him staring, but Bobby’s focus is resolutely downward, puffing as he hauls a toolbox toward the basement. “I don’t need help or anything.” He vanishes into the basement with a hollow clang, his footsteps resounding out through the staircase.

            “We should help him,” Cas says with his eyes still closed, still unmoving.

            “We should help him,” Dean agrees, also not moving.

            Cas sighs and sits up, and Dean thinks he’s actually make good on his offer, but he only unbuttons his jeans and starts to roll them down his legs.

            Maybe it’s just because it’s so crazy hot, but Dean can’t help the dirty thoughts that accompany this—he’s only human, right?—and Cas is a…well, fine specimen, objectively, obviously. Dean quit liking dudes ages ago, is what he tells himself, but his resolve slips a little when Cas leans back again and keeps his knees spread, his eyes shut.

            Dean shifts uncomfortably, his dick suddenly feeling a bit stiffer in his damp boxers, and the sudden, unbidden thought of Cas between his legs is suddenly enough to make his blood spike with heat. His breathing steepens.

            Wrong, he thinks, wrong on so many levels—level one being that Cas is a guy, or at least _in_ one, level two being that Cas is not his species, level three being that it’s Cas, level four being that it’s Cas—

            Eyes closed, Cas shifts his legs, and it’s not that Dean hasn’t seen the packaged goods before up close and personal, but now is really, really, _really_ not the time for it.

            He’s fully hard now, and he can feel a wet spot forming on his boxers, sticking to the head of his dick, and he does the first, stupidest thing he can think of—he grabs the blanket from the back of the couch and drapes it over himself.

            Cas’ eyes open, watching him in confusion. His face is completely flushed now, his hair dripping. “What are you doing?”

            “I’m cold,” Dean says, forcefully willing his dick to behave.

            “You’re…” Cas’ eyebrows raise. “What?”

            “Yeah, I think I felt a chill go through here.” Dean is, au contraire, sweltering _,_ and his whole body is pulsing with the need to jerk off, to do _something_ involving friction _,_ but he wraps the blanket tighter around his waist to be convincing.

            Cas looks genuinely concerned. “Are you sick? Do you have a fever?” He starts to stand, to which Dean’s brain throws out all kinds of infrared stop signs.

            “ _No_ ,” Dean says quickly. “I’m fine. Seriously, I’m fine.”

            God, leave it to him to lose it like a horny teenager over Cas in the plainest boringest boxers he’s ever seen. But, he guesses, he’s pretty literally in heat.

            There’s something carnal about this weather that’s frying every one of his brain cells, Cas helping the process pretty quickly, and he wonders if he could die from this kind of thing.

            Which is probably why the next brain-to-mouth filter short-out is, “Do angels have sex?”

            Cas just looks at him. Dean feels sweat sliding between his eyebrows, down the bridge of his nose, and he blinks through it.

            “What do you mean?” Cas asks.

            “You know, like.” Dean raises his hand in a vague, swirling motion toward the heavens. “How do you guys like, reproduce?”

            “We don’t,” Cas says, still watching him curiously. “God created us all at the same time in one burst of light.”

            “Sexy,” is all Dean can think to say, and he almost kicks himself until Cas smirks in amusement.

            “So no, we don’t reproduce in a sense, but we can still…” Cas trails off, his eyes floating toward the ceiling. “…take partners recreationally.”

            Dean’s pretty sure Cas is being coy with him, and his throat dries out at the realization that he’s being flirted with.

            “It’s frowned upon, of course,” Cas continues, his eyes still focused upward. So maybe not flirting, Dean thinks, kinda confused, kinda blue-balled. “Back in the time of a more strict bureaucracy, it was punishable by falling—our grace being taken and being forced to live as mortals.”

            “Is that really so bad?” Dean asks, frowning. “I mean, being human sucks, speaking from experience, but it’s not like. The _worst_ thing.”

            “It’s quite painful for us,” Cas says, and Dean gets a glimpse into that old sadness again, the kind he’d seen on the mountain one of the first times they’d met. “But…yes, I can imagine worse fates.”

            Dean almost asks then—almost asks if Cas has ever had sex, but he kind of doesn’t want to know the answer. He swallows it back.

            “Why do you ask?” Cas asks, finally tilting his head to make eye contact with Dean again.

            Dean shrugs, trying to play it off. “Sex is pretty great. I was just wondering if you guys were like….y’know, junkless.”

            Cas laughs low in his throat and wipes sweat out from his eyes. “My true form doesn’t exist within human anatomy, but my mortal form has…junk, so to speak.”

            What the shitting hell. None of this is real, Dean thinks incredulously, even as his cock gives a traitorous little twitch.

            “No need to sound so pleased with yourself,” Dean finally grumbles when he recovers his mental faculties, and Cas just smiles, his eyes closed.

            Dean shuts his eyes too, leaning back into the couch cushions, and for a guilty minute, he allows it—he allows himself to think of Cas near him, on him, his mouth hovering over his neck, between his thighs, along the waistband of his boxers, lapping up the sweat there with his tongue—

            Dean opens his eyes and Cas is watching him strangely, the blue in his eyes the thinnest ring of color, almost gone due to his pupils fully blown, and for a horrifying, exhilarating moment, Dean wonders if Cas had been reading his mind, seeing those images play out, and for an even longer second, he doesn’t care. He _wants_ Cas to see it, to imagine it—

            “You two done napping?” Bobby snarks from the basement entrance, and Dean starts, the heavy intimacy of the moment cracked clean in half. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees Cas shift uncomfortably on the armchair, reaching for his jeans.

            “Sorry, Bobby.”

            “Fixed the AC,” Bobby says, slinging a dirty rag over his shoulder and heading toward the kitchen. “You’re welcome, I guess.”

            Dean looks back to Cas, his pulse still thudding like a bass drum in his chest, and Cas is tugging on his jeans over his hips now, zipping them up with a wince.

            Maybe Dean’s going crazy, he thinks as he pointedly looks away, directing his gaze to the blank TV screen. Maybe this weird edge, this weird tension between the two of them doesn’t exist and Dean’s making it up. Does Cas feel it? Is he even capable of that kind of thing?

            Dean breathes out through his nose slowly. He’s pretty sure Cas would’ve mentioned it by now if they were…that, at any point in the future. And it’s not like Dean would ever, _ever_ allow himself to even be that with a dude, _especially_ not as long as his dad’s alive and kicking.

            So, it’s nothing then. It’s just the heat going to his brain. He puts it way to the back of his mind where hopefully it’ll never come up again.

            Dean naps. It’s really the only thing to do, in this kind of weather, even if it’s probably kind of rude to pass out with Cas still around. Maybe it’s the weird pheromone spillover effects from earlier, but Dean dreams of a pretty brunette going down on him, his wrists tied in ropes to the bedframe as she works him over. He’s gasping her name, rocking into the warm wet heat of her mouth, and then something strange happens—when he looks down again to beg her to keep going, it’s Cas he sees instead, his lips pulling on and off Dean’s dick with obscene wet pops. Somehow, in the dream, Dean’s not bothered by the switch; like he wants it, he approves of his subconscious giving this to him, _this_ is what he really wanted.

            Dean’s hands are free now, free to do to Cas whatever he wants, so he tangles his fingers in his thick dark hair and tugs. Cas tilts into the touch and hums contentedly around Dean’s cock, pulling off to nose at Dean’s balls, and Dean’s crying out now, rubbing a thumb along the stubbled bolt of Cas’ jaw to encourage him to keep going, his tongue pushing deeper and slower—

            “Dean,” Cas murmurs, nipping at the soft flesh of his inner thigh. “Dean.”

            “ _Cas_ ,” Dean echoes, tipping his head back against the bedframe, giving himself over.

            “Dean,” Cas says, more insistently, and the tone is way wrong for sex—no gentleness, all urgency. The warmth and sensations coursing through him instantly recede, like Cas had pulled off.

            Dean’s being jostled now, too abrupt, and his eyes fly open.

            “Dean,” Cas is saying, shaking him with a concerned expression.

            “What?” Dean splutters, grappling in a panic for cover and breathing a silent thank you to Jesus or Buddha or whoever that the blanket’s still thrown over him.

            “You were having a nightmare,” Cas says, a small crease between his eyebrows. The room is dusty blue with dusk now—the sun’s already gone down. “You were calling for me so I thought I should wake you up.”

            “Bluh,” Dean says, articulately. “Uh, yeah man. Thanks.”

            Cas nods, searching his face more closely, the warmth of his hand on Dean’s shoulder still a soft presence. Dean’s face is practically blazing with embarrassment, and he’s grateful for the dark cast of the room.

            “Is everything okay?” Cas asks, taking back his hand.

            “Yeah, I’m fine. Seriously.” Dean’s about a half-second away from crawling under the blanket and never resurfacing. He feels like a dog with its tail between its legs.

            “Okay,” Cas says, taking a step back before he frowns. “Although I’m somewhat surprised you weren’t calling for Sam.”

            Dean chokes out some mixed noise of laughter and horror. “Uh. Yeah, me too.”

            Cas resumes his perch on the armchair and Dean stares at the dark ceiling and mentally punishes himself for what he’s done.

            “Where’s Bobby,” he asks, desperate for a change in subject.

            “Store run,” Cas replies. “He said some of the food in the fridge spoiled from the heat. He’s gone to resupply.”

            Dean’s not really paying attention to his response. He’s more distracted by the fact that he’d had a wet dream for the first time in months, maybe years, and it’d been over…Cas. And he’d _liked_ it, he’d _wanted_ it, he wants it.

            Dean _could_ reassess his entire life and what this means for how he apparently feels toward Cas, his very evasive, mostly male friend, or he could completely ignore it, pretend it never happened, and chalk it up to a heat-induced fluke. Dean instantly opts for the latter.

            What wet dream?

            “Shower’s operational now, right?” Dean asks, then adds quickly, before Cas can get any ideas, “I’m like, drenched in sweat.”

            “Yes, I think Bobby fixed it,” Cas says, flicking on the lamp above the armchair and rustling with interest through some of the pages Bobby keeps stacked on the side-table.

            Dean rolls to his feet and quickly turns his back to Cas, heading off to the shower without another glance back.


	8. Chapter 8

**January 24, 2004**

After Cas leaves, Dean hits a truly impressive record of taking women home from bars. He likes to think there’s no correlation, and that he’s just got a _lot_ of game.

            They’re all good lays, because Dean if nothing else has fantastic taste, and he genuinely likes all of them, even if the flings don’t last more than a night—there’s a certain mutual understanding between him and them, the unspoken contract between sheets, the bodily agreement to share companionship and warmth and intimacy without holding out for more. He sleeps with Annies and Sarahs and Marias and Jennifers, but he can’t see himself really with any of them, not long-term. Dean’s starting to think it’s him, not them. Like he’s not cut out to be right, to be “more” for anybody.

            Which, it’s not like Dean had huge plans on getting married and settling down anyway. He travels around too much, not to mention that he beheads things that go bump in the night for an occupation. He’d probably get dumped like yesterday’s trash if he tried to tell a girl that with a straight face, or at least get shouted down for being a raving lunatic. Which hey, he’d probably dump his own ass too.

            All that aside, Dean’s hell-bent on not spending his 25th birthday alone. Sam had called to wish him a good one, which Dean tells himself had been just “casually nice” and not “fucking lifesaving,” and so had Bobby. Both of them had apologized for being too tied up to celebrate, which Dean doesn’t really mind. At least they’d called, but that leaves him to his own devices on providing birthday entertainment.

            He _could_ do what he’d done on the night of his 24th birthday, which was get drunk on tequila alone in his motel room and yell slurred curses at the Chiefs on TV, but he’s technically halfway through his twenties so he’s trying to up the standard.

            There’s a bar down the street that the hotel clerk had recommended, so he figures it’s worth a try, if only to get a steady access to alcohol. Before he leaves, Dean stares at his own face in the motel mirror and angles his jaw back and forth, wondering if it’s worth it to shave. He looks into his own eyes and tries to feel 25, but he feels older, somehow. When he picks up his dad’s jacket and shrugs it on over his shoulders, he feels even more aged, like the thing is physically weighing him down.

            He takes one last look in the mirror, floofing up his hair and smiling at himself as convincingly as he can, but all he gets out of the look is a toothy grimace.

            There’s a loud, shattering crash of glass out in the motel room—Dean jumps—which is followed by a loud, cranky, “ _Shit._ ”

            Dean all but launches himself out of the bathroom, almost not daring to believe, but sure as anything, Cas is there, in front of him like he’d never left, scooping up shards of glass of what was apparently something fragile and maybe expensive.

            “Cas,” Dean says, his heart punching against his ribs as he tries to keep the stupid grin off his face.

            “Dean,” Cas replies, throwing a small smile in his direction before returning to his task. “I broke a vase on my crash-landing. I hope you don’t have to pay for it.”

            “Don’t…don’t even worry about it, man.” He tries not to sound too giddy as he all but sags against the bathroom doorframe.

            “How long has it been?” Cas asks, wiping off his hands over the wastebasket.

            “It’s January 24th,” Dean says, kinda secretly wondering if he knows the significance of the day.

            Cas glances up at that, his lips quirked in an incredulous smile. “Is it really? Happy birthday.”

            So he does, then.

            “Thanks,” Dean says, dropping his head so Cas can’t see his dumb, goofy smile. “Talk about good timing, for once. I was gonna go crazy if I had to spend it alone.”

            Cas is still smiling when he comes to stand next to Dean, and it makes the crinkles in the corners of his eyes deepen. The expression looks warm on him. “I’m glad I’m here.”

            “Me too, dude.” Dean grins and throws an arm gamely around Cas’ shoulders. “Now it’s a fuckin’ party.”

\--

            Dean immediately orders them each multiple shots of tequila when they get to the bar, which gets him a raised eyebrow from Cas. Either way, Cas takes them like a champ, stoically knocking back all four with a solemn expression, while Dean tries not to act like a fratty college kid after his third. Still, there’s something about the alcohol that emboldens him to drift closer to Cas, to allow him in closer, breathing in each other’s space.

            Dean’s watching a group of guys shoot pool when he gets an idea.

            “You ever seen me hustle pool?” Dean asks in a low voice, leaning toward Cas as he says it, and Cas doesn’t back away, turning into it so their noses almost brush. The electricity from that August day at Bobby’s is back in full force, almost audibly coursing between them, made stronger by the alcohol.

            “Yes,” Cas says, just as quietly, his eyes fixed steadily to Dean’s. “But I’ve never learned to play myself.”

            “I can teach you,” Dean suggests, setting down his half-empty beer bottle on the bar.

            Cas cocks one skeptical eyebrow. “Do you want to?”

            “Hell yeah,” Dean says happily, feeling lighter than he has in ages. The buzz of the alcohol is a warm, welcome hum under his skin. “I taught Sammy everything he knows. Come on, I bet you’re a natural.”

            Cas seems to pick up on Dean’s good mood as he smiles back at him and shrugs. “Okay. But only if you want to.”

            “Attaboy,” Dean crows, tossing an arm around Cas’ shoulders and dragging him through a small crowd of people. “It’s easy once you get the hang of it, trust me.”

            It takes some negotiating to wrangle the pool table away from the current group of guys using it, but after some drink offers and some pity pitches about celebrating Dean’s birthday, they back off in pretty good spirits. Dean can sense some of the eyes in the bar on him and for once, he feels like he’s glowing under the attention.

            “Alright,” Dean says, stacking the balls in the triangle and rolling them over the velvet pooltop. “You’re either aiming for stripes or solids; it depends on which one you sink first—”

            “I know the logistics of the game,” Cas interrupts, not unkindly. “It’s simply the technique I’m unfamiliar with.”

            “Alright, fair enough. I’ll let you break if you want.”

            Cas nods and takes the pool stick Dean hands him with an air of uncertainty, almost like he’s not totally sure it isn’t a weapon.

            Dean grabs a pool stick and leans across the table to demonstrate. “You want to prop the edge of your stick on the web between your thumb and pointer finger like this, and keep your elbow as even as you can through your strokes. You see?” He practices a few strokes just so Cas can get a visual, and he ignores the warm feeling fizzing up in his chest at the feeling of Cas’ eyes intently tracking his every move.

            “Okay,” Cas says, copying the movement. “So the goal is to calculate the velocity and placement of the white ball to affect the trajectories of the surrounding balls.”

            “Yeah, basically you just like, hit the white ball toward the other balls,” Dean agrees. “Some of the pros are really calculated about it, but once you get a lot of practice, it’s more about instinct, I think.”

            “It’s basic geometry,” Cas says, straightening with a frown as his eyes sweep the table. “That’s why the diamonds are placed on the rim of the table as they are, correct? So you have a reference point for angling the balls toward the holes.”

            “Yeah, nerd,” Dean teases, poking his ribs with the end of his pool stick. “Sure.”

            Cas glares at him with fake haughtiness and wards off Dean’s pool stick with his.

            “Also, say rim, holes, and balls again, Cas,” Dean suggests. “You know, pool terms.”

            “You’re filthy,” Cas mutters as he leans over to imitate Dean’s position; despite the tone of disapproval, Dean can parse out the ghost of a smile in the shadow of his cheekbone.

            Cas gives a few practice strokes, squinting and aiming the tip of his stick toward the white ball.

            “No,” Dean says in a patient voice. “You’re bringing your elbow too far into your body when you stroke. You need to keep it as straight as possible, then follow through.”

            Cas overcompensates and his elbow sticks out like a chicken wing.

            “Man, you suck,” Dean says, rounding the table to stand behind Cas and gently gripping his elbow. “Bring this in, now back more. Theeeere you go. Now you want to keep your feet squared more evenly or else when you hit the ball you’ll be off balance.” He gently kicks the inside of Cas’ foot so that his legs spread farther apart. “Right. Now square your hips.”

            Dean hesitates, then reaches out to place a hand on either of Cas’ hips, rotating him so that he’s lined with the table just right. His heart is in his throat as Cas yields easily to his ministrations, seeming of course completely unaffected by it all.

            “This seems like a lot of effort for a game of basic math,” Cas says petulantly. Dean’s hands are still resting lightly on his hips.

            “It’s not just math, Cas. It’s about the technique too.”

            Cas leans forward a bit more and fires off the white ball in a test-hit, striking it off-center and sending it spinning sideways, totally off-base.

            “See? Your hand is all screwed up.” Dean’s pulse is at hurricane levels now as he presses up against Cas’ back, leaning forward so that his hand rests on top of Cas’ on the pool stick. He can feel Cas’ heartbeat ringing through his own chest. “Steady.” He places his other hand on top of Cas’ and pulls the stick back to direct him before demonstrating a quick practice stroke with Cas’ hands under his.

            “Ah,” Cas says, sounding out of breath.

            “All about the mechanics,” Dean says, so close to Cas that he can feel the soft tickle of the curls behind Cas’ ear against his cheek.

            “So, like this.” Cas bends so that his ass is pressed directly into Dean’s crotch, and Dean stifles a wounded animal noise as Cas hits the white ball with a sharp _thwack_ and sinks three balls dead center.

            “Yep,” Dean says, his voice sounding squeaky even to him. “Like that.”

            Dean pulls off, still feeling short of breath, and when he rounds the table with his head still spinning, he catches the small smirk on Cas’ face and knows, just instantly _knows_ that he’s being dicked with.

            _Two can play that game, fucker,_ he thinks, and after Cas misses the next shot, he picks a position that requires him to stretch almost entirely across the table, his ass in the air as he pokes a tongue through his teeth in concentration. When he knows Cas is watching him, he gives his ass a little wiggle, like he’s repositioning his stance, and fires the ball. He sinks a solid in the corner-hole and stands up coolly, making sure he doesn’t look in Cas’ direction.

            After he sinks another shot, he orders a round of drinks and sneaks a look at Cas—Cas is staring at him, almost like he’s transfixed, and Dean gets that ticklish feeling in his stomach again, like birds flapping around.

            Dean downs another drink just within the span of Cas’ next turn, and Cas picks a spot that Dean thinks conveniently manages to be directly in front of him as he bends over. Dean watches the long, tan lines of his forearms working as he lines up the next shot, and thinks that he’s probably pretty screwed but it’s also his birthday and he’s also drunk, so he can’t really be inclined to give a shit.

            Cas does his dumb geometry trick and sinks the next two shots, after which he’s forced by Dean to take two shots of vodka. He can tell that Cas, who’s pretty much perpetually sober, might actually be feeling buzzed, whether that be by his angel juice running low or the strength of the alcohol. So Dean, being the enabler he is, would like to milk that for as long as he possibly can.

            Dean sets down his own drink and leans over near Cas.

            “Hey, Cas,” Dean says, keeping his eye focused on the white ball. “Show me how to do that geometry thing.”

            He hears Cas snort some quiet laughter and then, after a moment, there’s heat directly behind him, large hands cupping his hips as Cas leans over him.

            “If you aim for the diamond on the opposite end of the table,” Cas says in a low voice, and Dean’s trying really valiantly not to give himself away on a full-body shiver. “It allows you to hit at a 60-degree angle toward the red solid. With enough force, the ball should go in the hole.”

            “With a hard enough stroke,” Dean says in breathless agreement, and he sinks the shot.

            Dean takes another shot of tequila while Cas walks the perimeter of the table to angle his next shot, which—of course—happens to be in front of Dean again.

            “You’re such a tease,” Dean says, and Cas laughs and bends over, shifting his hips in a slight wriggle. Dean gives his ass a playful smack with his pool stick, to which Cas gives a slight jolt and rocks back.

            “What’s the saying? Takes one to know one?” Cas asks as he takes his next shot and misses.

            Dean grins and takes another shot—of alcohol, that is—and tries not to stumble as he lines up the next hole. He can see Cas in his periphery vision absently stroking the pool stick into the loose circle of his hand, back and forth, and he’ll be fucked if that’s some kind of accident and Cas doesn’t know _exactly_ what he’s doing. He’ll be fucked if he kind of wouldn’t mind Cas taking him on the table in front of a bar full of people. But he’s drunk so he’s got the excuse of wanting Cas tonight.

            Dean wins the game by a slim margin, given Cas misjudges his final angle thanks to increased alcohol consumption (“it makes my vision off-center,” he complains to Dean, which is sort of the whole point), which gets him another round of drinks on Cas and bragging rights for the rest of the night.

            “You’re not bad for a first-timer,” Dean teases, taking a long swig of beer as the table gets yielded to another group of guys. “Just not good enough.”

            “Wait for the rematch,” Cas warns, his eyes trailing up and down Dean’s features warmly.

            “Math will prevail,” Dean mocks in his best Urkel voice.

            “It will,” Cas agrees, steady as anything.

            “I’m gonna hit the head,” Dean says, setting his half-finished drink on the nearest table and standing with a stretch. He feels strangely fearless, like he’d do anything Cas asked him to do, and he’s not sure if that’s the alcohol or just _Cas._

“I’ll come with you,” Cas says, also standing, and Dean bites down on a smile and heads toward the back of the bar.

            It’s dimly lit in the back hallway to the restrooms, almost too dark to see, and before he knows it, Dean finds himself tripping over Cas’ feet, which sends them both crashing clumsily into the nearest wall.

            “Sorry,” Dean says with a breathless laugh, keeping Cas pinned under him, and Cas just chuckles in his throat and aligns his shoulders with the wall.

            Dean can’t take it, the electricity amping up—he’s gonna fucking combust or blow a fuse if he doesn’t at least _try_ to touch Cas, so he leans forward and presses a kiss into Cas’ collarbone, bare from where the plaid flannel’s slipped down.

            Cas goes very still underneath him, but not still enough to set off any warning bells.

            Dean feels Cas suck in a quick, trembling breath under his mouth, like he’s fighting not to come undone, and it drives him crazy, that he can unbend Cas like this. He starts to nose up the column of Cas’ throat, breathing in the smell of him, and Cas tilts his head back with a thud into the wall, his eyes closed.

            Finally, shakily like he’s found his words again, he says, “Dean, what are you doing.”

            “Aw, come on, Cas,” Dean says, scraping his teeth lightly over the stubble of Cas’ jaw. Cas is practically humming, taut like a live wire under him. “You can’t tell me we don’t mess around after a few drinks like this.”

            Cas doesn’t say anything, just inhales sharply through his nose, and Dean nuzzles under his jaw.

            “We shouldn’t,” Cas says in a near-whisper, tilting his head down even as he says it so his cheek rubs against Dean’s. “We shouldn’t.”

            Dean tugs playfully on the belt-loops of Cas’ jeans, bringing his hips closer. “Come on, Cas. I want this, I’m pretty sure you want this, and it’s not like we don’t ever do this in the—”

            “No,” Cas says, pulling his head back with apparent reluctance and fixing Dean with a long stare. “We don’t.”

            These words have the equivalent effect of a bucket of ice getting dumped over Dean’s head.

            “Oh,” Dean says, feeling the cold front. His voice sounds hollow even to him. “I just…I assumed we were…”

            “You assumed we were what?” Cas says, much more testily than before, and Dean doesn’t think he’s ever seen him like this, so on edge, so ready to snap.

            “I don’t know,” Dean snaps back, starting to bristle up in defense. “Gee, I don’t know what I was thinking. I guess I just _imagined_ what the fuck was going on during pool.”

            “Pool?” Cas echoes.

            “Come on, Cas, don’t play stupid. You felt that as much as I did and if you say otherwise you’re a dirty goddamned liar.” Dean’s still raw, stinging all over with rejection and confusion. He wants to bury himself in a ditch or throw punches or both.

            Cas opens his mouth to reply, but Dean interrupts with, “I just don’t get it.”

            “Get what?”

            “I don’t really get the hold-up when it’s clear that I…that you…” Dean swallows, feeling his throat tightening up, almost choking off his next words. “Or maybe I’m fucking insane.” He tries to laugh, but the sound is bitter, strangled. “Maybe I’m imagining everything.”

            “It’s not…” Cas says, sounding like the words are being dragged from him. “It’s not…just you. _Believe_ me. But you don’t want this, Dean.” His eyes fasten to the floor, his expression eclipsed from view. “You wouldn’t want this, not if you knew what I’ve done. That’s why Dean and I, we never…” He trails off and his jaw clenches, and Dean feels the frisson of pain there and knows, suddenly, that he’s been fucking blindsided. He’s missed something huge here.

            Cas picks up again, with difficulty. “You don’t truly know me, Dean, otherwise you wouldn’t want this.”

            “Look,” Dean begins through his teeth, feeling his hands knot into fists at his sides. “I’m not just a carbon copy of some other guy, alright? I’m a real person and I can make my own damn decisions. And this, my _feelings_?” Dean pushes on Cas’ chest, hard enough to make him flinch. “They’re _real._ So you don’t get to—to jerk me around like I’m your summer vacation fling. And if that’s all this is, if I’m just like some placeholder until you get to dick around with the ‘real’ me again, then you can just fuck off, Cas.”

            Cas stares at him now, wide-eyed. “That’s _not_ what I meant,” he says, his voice low with conviction. “That’s not at all what I intended to do. The last thing I ever want to do is hurt you. Please trust me on that.”

            “Well, bang-up job. Nicely done with that.”

            “I would,” Cas whispers, like he’s scared of speaking the words aloud. He’s staring at Dean with such miserable longing that it sucks all the breath straight out of Dean’s chest. “It’s just…I just _can’t,_ Dean _._ Please try to understand.”

            “Well, clearly we’re _something_ later on, or I’m fucking crazy—”

            “I hurt you and Sam,” Cas says quietly, not looking at Dean. “Badly. I…destroyed any possibility for us, before it was even a possibility. That’s why it can’t ever happen.”

            Dean swallows hard, allowing himself a second to process these words. “Hurt Sam and me?” he finally repeats, taking a step back. “How? _Why_?”

            Cas suddenly looks so old and tired, the lines around his eyes pinched with weariness. “That’s a story for another time.”

            Dean gives a short nod and smiles grimly. He steps back again, putting more space between them. “Right,” he says, feeling his lip curl up in a sneer. “Always another time with you, right?”

            Cas just looks at him with the saddest fucking face in the world, and drops his eyes again. “I’m sorry, Dean.”

            “No, no,” Dean says with a snort, waving his hand. “Lesson learned. Thanks for this educational experience.” He turns and adjusts his leather jacket on his shoulders, heading toward the front of the bar.

            “Dean,” Cas says in a pained voice behind him. “Where are you going?”

            “Back to the motel,” Dean throws over his shoulder. “Happy birthday to me.”

            His whole face feels bright with heat, a lump lodged in his throat like he’s about to cry, which he’s _not._ He’s just drunk and tired and just. Just.

            Dean slams his hands against the bar door so that it flies open and he’s hit with a breeze so sharp that his eyes tear up with the cold; he sucks in a huge breath, relishing the tingle of it in his lungs, the hot throb of blood in his face. For a moment, he stands in place under the neon cast of the bar-lights, closing his eyes and allowing himself to feel the cold with his whole body. His brain is still fuzzy with alcohol, but it just makes him feel sick now, not giddy, not brave.

            He’s hurt and pissed at Cas, so pissed that he doesn’t want to see him again. Simultaneously, the thought of never seeing Cas again straight up terrifies him. And when the _fuck_ had that happened? How had he allowed this guy to slip through the cracks of his armor and take up residence?

            So frigging stupid. As usual.

            He hears the bar’s door creak open behind him, the loud rush of noise from inside the bar, and then a hesitant silence.

            “Dean,” Cas says quietly.

            Dean blows out a long breath, his eyes still watering. He’s torn somewhere between annoyed and relieved that Cas had followed him after all. “What do you want?”

            “I didn’t mean.” Cas pauses again, his sentence splintering before he tries again. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, or reject you.”

            For a moment, Dean doesn’t answer, just keeps looking ahead, watching the occasional pair of headlights flicker by between buildings.

            “Is it just me?” Dean asks to the sky, closing his eyes. He doesn’t want to turn around. “Am I getting everything all sideways?”

            “No,” Cas says, so emphatic that Dean almost turns in grudging surprise. “No, like I said, it’s not just you. I wish that…” He makes a pained noise in his throat, almost a whimper, and the sound startles Dean into silence. “I wish we could. You don’t…you don’t even know how much I wish we could. But we can’t.”

            Dean finally turns to stare at Cas. His shoulders are hunched against the cold, given the dumbass hadn’t brought a jacket, and his eyes are shut. His nose is already pink.

            “Why not?” Dean finally asks.

            Cas shakes his head, sliding his hands in his pockets, and he seems to think his words over before he answers. “Knowing you here, in this time, and knowing you then, my current present, it’s just—it’s too messy, Dean. Too many things could go wrong.”

            Dean thinks the time-travel excuse had come a little late, in his opinion; Cas’ gut reaction had been guilt over something or other. He’s too exhausted to try to get it out of him tonight, given extracting anything from Cas is like pulling teeth.

            “So we forget this,” Dean says with a short nod, swallowing hard. “We forget this ever happened and we stay business-casual. Am I hearing that right?”

            Cas hesitates, then nods. “I think that would be for the best, for both of us.”

            “Fine,” Dean says, and jams his hands in his pockets. “And just for the record, I didn’t mean for it to be…y’know, like a long-term…thing. Humans, we get wasted and do crazy stupid things we regret and then pretend to forget about it later.”

            Cas looks at him through his eyelashes, expression unreadable. “That’s all you want?”

            “That’s all I wanted,” Dean corrects, nodding firmly. “I don’t do long-term, in case you didn’t notice. Especially with dudes. No offense.”

            “None taken,” Cas says, seeming to relax an increment. Dean ignores the tiny pang of hurt he feels at Cas’ evident relief, like he’d somehow gotten off the hook having to mess around with him. Which, whatever. There are plenty of other people that’ll actually appreciate his sexual prowess.

            He can still taste Cas on his mouth, which is somewhat ridiculous given they hadn’t actually _done_ anything, not even kissed. He wipes a dry hand over the back of his mouth to get rid of the flavor.

            “Also, for future reference?” Dean says, turning back around and shaking his head. He starts up walking, heading toward the motel. “Don’t lead a guy on when you don’t intend to deliver the goods. No one likes a blue-baller.”

            “I’m sorry,” Cas says, trying to catch up with him. “It’s sometimes…difficult to distinguish between you and the Dean I know. It’s hard to resist interacting with you the way I interact with him.”

            “So why don’t you?” Dean asks, feeling his eyebrows scrunch together in frustration. “I mean, just interact with me the way you would usually interact with…me.”

            “We have a different context of knowing each other, in my time,” Cas says, sounding uncomfortable. “When we do act like that, it’s with the full knowledge on both ends that Dean wouldn’t ever pursue it. There’s certain history that we’re engaging with, if that makes sense.”

            “I would never pursue it,” Dean echoes slowly, catching the implicit follow-up to the sentence. “But you would?”

            Cas is stone-faced, other than the way his jaw gives a small twitch. “That’s not the point. The point is that I shouldn’t have the same relationship with you that I do with him because although you’re the same person, you’re also different—very different. You have entirely different universes of experience between you.”

            Dean just stares at the sharp sloping edges of his profile, trying to read any expression from him, but Cas has shut down, stoic as anything. “You miss him, don’t you?” he says.

            Cas breathes out slow, some of the ambivalence in his expression cracking like a clay mask. “Every day,” he replies.

            Dean almost says something really dumb, almost says something to reach out to Cas like _I probably miss you too, knowing me,_ but he doesn’t say anything. He makes light of it instead.

            “Welp, you’re stuck with me,” he says jokingly. “Sorry for the downgrade.”

            Cas suddenly stills and fixes a hand on either shoulder, stopping them both in their tracks. Dean stares at him, feeling his body already lighting up again under Cas’ touch, as unassuming as it is.

            “Dean, listen to me,” Cas says. “You are amazing. You’ve always been and you’ll always be that. Your relationship with me in any time doesn’t detract from just how incredible you are. You amaze me on a daily basis, and you should believe me when I say that I’ve seen a lot of truly amazing things in my time.”

            Dean can’t even speak. Words have gotten slingshot straight from his brain.

            Cas tightens his mouth solemnly and waits for him to speak, seeming to sense that Dean’s struggling to word a response. He keeps his hands in place, tightening his fingers into Dean’s shoulders, as if sensing he needs the support.

            “All my life,” Dean finally says, lowering his gaze to the dark, wet asphalt. “All my life, I’ve been a rock for my dad and for Sam—and I, I don’t mind that, I really don’t. And I’m not just talking through my ass on that. I’d die for them in a second, I’m sure you know that. But that’s…that’s all I am, Cas. That’s all I’ve been. I don’t know how to be anything else.” He hates the shake in his voice, and clenches his fists against it. “I’m scared that I don’t know how to be anything else but that. I think hunting as young as I did fucked me up pretty good, and I’ve made my peace with that. But I don’t want to…I don’t want to just exist for my dad and my brother, you know? But I don’t know how _not_ to.”

            “You’re not that to me,” Cas says, gazing at him in the soft glow of the streetlights. “You’ve always been more than that to me.”

            Holy shit. Dean’s never drinking tequila again.

            “Okay,” Dean says with a strangled laugh, forcing himself to pull away from Cas’ touch. Cas lowers his hands reluctantly. “Okay. This is…a lot. Just give me a second.”

            “Dean—”

            “Stop. Don’t talk.”

            They start walking again in silence while Dean tries to recover from almost losing it. Cas seems to get it, at least.

            “Sorry that I can’t, like,” Dean says. “Have nice things said to me without going catatonic.”

            “I’m used to it,” Cas says, not unkindly. “But that doesn’t stop me from trying.”

            Dean sucks on his lower lip, not meeting Cas’ eyes as they continue the trek back to the motel.

            “You know,” Dean says, already embarrassed by what intends to come out of his mouth. “You’re pretty okay too.”

            Cas’ mouth curves up in a small smile. “Thank you, Dean.”

            “I really mean that. I mean, for sure you get on my nerves, exhibit A tonight. But.” Dean swallows hard, chewing on his lip again before he speaks. “I think I’d be a lot sadder if you weren’t around.”

            Cas blows out a quiet breath, and when Dean sneaks a glance over, Cas is gazing at him softly.

            “I’m relieved to hear that,” Cas says eventually, after Dean’s stewing in his own mortified silence for a good thirty seconds. “I know my visits have been unpredictable, inconvenient, sometimes to your detriment. I’m glad to know that they don’t cause you any strife.”

            What Dean _wants_ to say is that sometimes Cas’ visits, when he was entirely alone without a number to call or a home to crash in, were what saved his damn life, or at least his sanity, but the words are too big to voice. They shake him just existing inside him, let alone out in the open.

            “And I can’t really speak for future me,” Dean keeps going, like a trainwreck in slow motion, “but I think, knowing him for the most part, that he probably needs you around too.”

            Cas looks affected by Dean’s words, and when he speaks again, his voice is uneven, doubtful. “I’m not sure how true that is, but thank you for saying it, regardless.”

            Dean nods, at a loss for what else to say. They walk back the remainder of the way in companionable silence; Dean’s trying hard not to think about what Cas’ stubble had tasted like, how he’d arched his head back into it exactly the way Dean had imagined he would. He wonders what Cas is thinking about.

            “I’m sorry if I’ve ruined your birthday,” Cas says, kind of answering his question when they reach the motel and Dean’s reaching for the room key.

            Dean chuckles and shakes his head as he unlocks the door, gratefully shouldering his way in to heat away from the cold. “You seriously underestimate the number of shitty birthdays I’ve had.”

            Cas narrows his eyes, perhaps wanting to say something else in response to that, but he seems to sense Dean’s not really in the mood for talking.

            They slowly take off their clothes, and it’s frankly pretty freaky to Dean, that they’ve almost got this…ritual that they have now. Dean could make more excuses about wanting to sleep on the floor, but he has a feeling Cas’ll call his bluff and he’s too tired to put up a fight tonight anyway.

            “If I don’t see you in the morning,” Dean says, settling under the covers with Cas following steadily after him. “Don’t do anything stupid, alright? At least until I see you again.”

            Cas lets out a quiet breath of laughter, thunking his head into the pillow and shifting around to get comfortable. “There’s not much stupid I _can_ do when I’m being thrown through a temporal vacuum.”

            “Somehow I have faith you’ll find a way.”

            Cas knocks his shoulder with his fist lightly in remonstration, and Dean smiles with his eyes closed.

            “I’ll be careful,” Cas says. “As long as you will. You’re the one actually living out the time we spend apart.”

            “For the record, I survived just fine on my own before you popped in,” Dean protests, feeling the need to defend _some_ of his pride. “It’s not my fault you just happen to show up at times when I’m like Princess freakin’ Peach.”

            “Speaking of that, I’ve beaten you countless times at MarioKart in my time,” Cas says thoughtfully. “If you wanted a spoiler.”

            “Now _that’s_ a fucking lie.”

            Cas smiles and twists toward him, his eyes half-closed in the dark, and Dean squashes the sudden, terrible urge he has to kiss him directly on the mouth, just to try it. What would that feel like, what would that taste like? Would Cas kiss him back?

            They don’t do that, Dean thinks, chaining up the desire and letting it sink deep down into the pits of his chest like an anchor, down where it can’t resurface again. They aren’t that.

            Tentatively, not sure if he’s allowed this, he slides his calf forward between both of Cas’, just to feel the solid warmth of another body against his, and Cas tenses a little bit but relaxes into the touch after another moment, burrowing closer to Dean and curving his calf around Dean’s so that their legs are intertwined.

            Dean doesn’t really know what this is, or if Cas knows either, but he thinks he might need it. He thinks Cas might too.

            He nods off sometime later, Cas’ warmth a steady pulse next to him, and when he wakes up hours later, even with his eyes closed, he feels the barren cold of the sheets next to him. When he opens his eyes, Cas is gone.


	9. Chapter 9

**October 23, 2004**

The house is quiet and still when Dean wakes up. For a moment, he stays stretched out on his stomach in bed, watching soft orange bars of light slowly shift on the wooden floor. It’s probably 5 in the morning or earlier, but he feels too restless to fall back asleep. He cracks his toes into the mattress before he groans and gets up, the hardwood floors chilled under his bare feet.

            He wanders his way into the kitchen, the only sound in the house the soft shush of his sweatpants on the wooden floors, and it’s weird for him, being in a kinda nice house with the residue of someone else’s family, someone else’s life. The house, a lake cabin near Branson, belongs to his dad’s old military buddy, who’d let Dean stay generously under the impression that it was a post-grad trip with his dad. Of course, in reality, there are weird animal killings in the wooded areas around the parts—when are there _not_ weird animal killings—but his dad’s friend is safely in the dark on it.

            Dean shakes coffee grinds into the filter and clicks on the machine, resting his hands on the countertop to look sleepily out at the budding sunlight mottling through the trees. It’s beautiful out here, he thinks, middle of nowhere place with just trees, a man-made lake and a small road for miles on end. He entertains himself for just a second what it’d be like, to be in a family that owns this kind of thing as a vacation home, like a getaway life. It’d be nice to have a solid place to run to when you’re running away.

            Dean pours coffee into a plain black mug and pads through the kitchen before he slides open the glass door that leads to the front porch. Autumn’s just started to get cold, and he’s starting to feel the chill in his joints like he always does when winter’s around the corner.

            Dean takes a long sip of coffee and quietly breathes in the earthy tang of leaves on wet earth and the soft spice of smoke in the air, like a fire’s burning somewhere nearby. It’s chilly enough for his toes to tingle but Dean doesn’t mind it—it’s rare, so rare when it’s quiet enough that he can actually hear himself think.

            He’s lonely all the time now. He’d never admit it out loud, can barely admit it to himself, but he misses the feeling of sharing a bed with someone, the sleepy security of cuddling and morning kisses and touches and sex that means something.

            He misses Sam and he misses his dad and he misses Cas, but missing Cas is different, somehow. He has the consolation of knowing that he could drive to Sam and he could find his dad, if he really needed to—he could call either of them just to say hi and breathe easy knowing they’re alive. With Cas, it’s harder; it hurts deeper. There’s no tangible evidence that he’s coming back, that he’s got roots in Dean’s life, like Dean’s missing someone without any hold to cling to. Like he’s missing a memory or a dream.

            Dean breathes out slow, and the warmth of his coffee-breath stirs the air into a barely visible cloud. He closes his eyes and listens, to the quiet hush of wind shuffling the thinning trees, the soft creaking of the deck under his shifting weight, the occasional crunch of an animal’s paws crackling on fallen leaves.

            There’s an unnatural shift in atmosphere around him, like the air’s tightening, and then an audible rustle directly beside him, a pulse of warmth. Dean keeps his eyes closed, trying to keep his breath even.

            “You should phone a guy, every once in a while,” he says out loud, reaching a hand sideways to offer his coffee. “I’m startin’ to get mixed signals.”

            Cas hesitates for a moment next to him before he sighs and takes the mug wordlessly—then, for a brief and weirdly touching moment, Cas just leans forward and rests his forehead on Dean’s shoulder. Dean allows it, even tilts into it a little bit, and closes his eyes again.

            “I’m sorry,” Cas says, his voice slightly muffled by Dean’s t-shirt. “I hate this.”

            Dean reaches up and briefly, just briefly cards his fingers through Cas’ hair, letting himself have the intimacy of this reunion even if he’ll shrug it off in a few minutes like it hadn’t happened. Even if, according to Cas, one day he won’t remember it at all.

            “I could be pissed at you,” Dean says, giving a weary shrug. “It’d be so easy to get pissed at you, to get bitter and shitty about this whole thing. But I just.” He sighs, and Cas moves away with it, his warmth retracting. “You’ll probably be gone tomorrow, so it’s not worth it. It’s just not.”

            Cas raises the mug to his lips and sips, blue eyes flickering out over the forest in interest. He gives a short nod of understanding, maybe gratitude, and the moment tapers gently to a close even before he speaks; they’re just Dean and Cas again, old friends catching up. Nothing in-between. “Where are we? This place is unfamiliar to me.”

            “Dad’s got a friend and I needed a place to crash,” Dean says, clearing his throat and shuffling his feet to get feeling in them again. “Weird animal killings in the area. Probably a cold case, but Dad wanted to be sure.”

            Cas nods, resting the coffee mug against his bottom lip. “It’s fall.”

            “Yep,” Dean agrees. “October.”

            Cas closes his eyes with a defeated expression. “A minute ago it was your birthday.”

            “I’ve been okay,” Dean says with a nonchalant bob of his shoulder. There’s still a tight, fluttering feeling under his ribs, seeing Cas after all these months. “Ready for the year to be over, but that’s par for the course.”

            “What’s happened?” Cas asks, in a forcibly lighter voice, Dean thinks. “Anything important?”

            “Dad thinks he’s getting closer to figuring out what killed my mom,” Dean says, and almost wants to ask Cas if he knows the truth, but it’s not like he’s going to get a straight answer. Something deep in him, a part that he’d never admit to his dad, kind of doesn’t want to know anyway. “But he’s been saying that forever. Bobby got a dog. Sam, last time I talked to him, said he’s thinking about becoming a lawyer. Eugh.”

            Cas smiles against the mug before he says thoughtfully, “He’d be good at that.”

            “He’d be good at hunting,” Dean grumbles, feeling weirdly betrayed by Cas supporting Sam’s grad-school cupcake life path. Cas is usually on his side.

            “I know it hurts, to be away from him,” Cas says, raising his eyebrows and looking at Dean gently. “But you should want what’ll make him happy.”

            “I know,” Dean protests. “I know that. It just…I dunno, sucks that he never wants to hang out with me anymore. We were thick as thieves growing up—had to be, I guess—and now it’s like…it’s like he doesn’t have room for me anymore. Like he outgrew me or something.” He shrugs, running a fingernail along one of the wooden grains of the porch railing. “I don’t fit into his new life. It fucking hurts that he doesn’t really care that I don’t.”

            Cas cups a light palm on Dean’s shoulder and hands him back the coffee mug. Dean takes the mug back and sips half-heartedly, but the coffee’s gone cold and bitter with the temperature.

            “And, uh,” Dean says, hesitating. For whatever reason, he hasn’t been sure how to broach this topic with Cas, like it’ll be weird or something. He squints out into the woods, squaring his jaw. “I was…seeing someone. For a while. Just a few months, but um…we were….”

            He glances at Cas out of the corner of his eye, but Cas appears unmoved by the words, just nods slowly.

            “She was…we were…um,” Dean says, shifting his feet and looking down. “Her name was Cassie. Met on a case in Ohio back in March. We didn’t—we didn’t work out.”

            Cas’ hand, still resting on Dean’s shoulder, tightens warmly, sympathetically. “I’m sorry, Dean.”

            “S’okay,” Dean says, biting down on his lip before he speaks again. “Not meant to be, y’know? I’m over it.”

            Cas doesn’t seem to buy that, just purses his lips and rubs his hand along the bridge of Dean’s shoulder, fingers curling warmly around his neck. Dean leans into it, closing his eyes.

            “Sorry,” Dean mutters, licking coffee away from his lips. “Don’t mean to be a downer. At least I’ve got you, huh?”

            Cas’ expression clouds over into something somber, and he looks off into the woods again. “Not for long, I’m afraid.”

            Always the bringer of good news. Dean’s knuckles whiten around the mug handle. “Don’t.”

            “Dean—”

            “That’s not gonna happen.”

            “We have to talk about it sooner or later,” Cas says, turning to gaze at him, misty-eyed with the cold. “We both know the day’s getting closer when this thing will catch up with me for good, and I’ll be—”

            “I’ll remember,” Dean says stubbornly, hating the acidic taste in the back of his throat.

            Cas’ eyes are still that killer kind of soft where it hurts to look at, like staring directly into the sun. “I don’t think you will. But that’s honestly okay, Dean. I know it seems bizarre to think about from this standpoint, knowing me as you have, but it’s not like I’ll be leaving or dying. I’ll have never existed. You won’t feel the difference.”

            Dean shakes his head and squeezes his eyes shut. “Just—just shut up, Cas, alright? I don’t want to talk about this right now.”

            “Alright,” Cas says, easily enough, but Dean detects the note of hesitation. “But I can’t run forever, Dean.”

            Dean swallows back the thick feeling in his throat and sets the empty coffee mug on the porch rail with a hollow clunk.

            “This wasn’t supposed to happen,” Dean says with a shaky attempt at a laugh.

            “What?”

            “I wasn’t supposed to give a shit about you, remember?”

            Cas doesn’t say anything to that, just remains quiet. Dean isn’t sure whether Cas is looking at him or still off into the trees, and he doesn’t bother to check.

            “I’d still like to know how we actually met, someday,” Dean says, then snorts bitterly. “Before you, y’know, go up in smoke.”

            “You still have a lot to live, Dean,” Cas says. “Unfortunately, I can’t give much away.”

            Dean sighs and claps both hands on the railing. “Well, this is uplifting. It’s not even 6 a.m. yet.”

            Cas tilts his head back to breathe slowly, almost like he’s blowing out a mouthful of cigarette smoke, and watches his breath steam up pensively. “We could watch more Jeopardy.”

            “Hey man, I’m down if you are. I don’t have any plans for today.”

            They end up on the couch in the main living room, and Dean can’t find Jeopardy anywhere that’s on this early but he _does_ find Tom & Jerry.

            “Oh, nice,” he says with a grin, settling back eagerly into the couch and ignoring the way Cas’ knees knock against his. “This was my favorite as a kid.”

            “What’s the moral of this?” Cas asks all squinty-eyed, watching in what appears to be disapproval as Tom face-slams into a wall trying to follow Jerry into a mousehole.

            “This cat and mouse hate each other and the mouse always outsmarts the cat,” Dean explains, tugging the afghan blanket draped over the back of the couch cushion to burrito around himself. “It’s basically the same thing every time but the mouse always finds a new way to fuck the cat over.”

            “What are children supposed to glean from this?”

            “Uh, nothing? It’s funny, Cas. It’s like standard kid entertainment.”

            “Hmm,” Cas says in his throat. A peach-colored lump sprouts from the top of Tom’s head as Jerry slams a wooden board onto it. “We worked a case about cartoons once.”

            Dean swivels slowly to stare at Cas’ profile, waiting for some sort of elaboration that a statement like that would, you know, elicit. Cas doesn’t give one.

            “An actual…cartoon case? What, are all the ghosts on acid in 2015?”

            “Only some,” Cas says, so solemnly that Dean, as usual, almost can’t tell if he’s being dicked with.

            “Oh God,” Dean mutters, shaking his head and nestling deeper into the blanket. He’s still chilled from some of the outside air, but he likes the smell of it clinging to his skin, hair, clothes. Cas smells like it too. “What’s next, talking animals?”

            “Ridiculous,” Cas agrees, poker-facing.

            They watch through the rest of the Saturday morning cartoons mainly in silence, apart from an occasional question from Cas. Dean’s close to falling back asleep, his head dangerously close to dropping on Cas’ shoulder, but he keeps his neck craned so he’s resting back against the couch cushion.

            After the cartoons are through, Dean locates a rerun of Forrest Gump on one of the channels and makes it a third of the way through before he really does crash, Cas’ steady breathing a lulling push-pull next to him. When he wakes up, it’s because Cas is shaking him and his phone’s going off.

            “Sam’s calling,” Cas says, dropping the phone in Dean’s hand and standing to mute the TV.

            Dean squints at his phone for a minute, scrunching his face up and rubbing his eyes with his knuckles. He runs his thumb along the seam of the side of the phone, debating on whether he should flip up and answer, but he waits. And waits. And lets it go to voicemail.

            He looks up at Cas, who’s got his finger pressed to the power button on the TV and is staring at him.

            “You’re not going to answer him?” Cas asks in an even voice, non-judgmental but curious.

            “Nah,” Dean says, tossing his phone onto the cushion next to him. He shrugs, ignoring the sting in his chest. “If Sam’s got no room for me in his life, then I’ve got no room for him either.” The words hurt to say.

            Cas crosses back over to the couch and resumes his perch next to Dean. “I don’t know if that’s what you really want, but I understand. What if the call was case-related?”

            “It wasn’t,” Dean says, shutting his eyes wearily. “The case’s been cold for like a year now. He probably just needs me to be the go-between guy for Dad.” That’s the only way they communicate anymore, which Dean super appreciates. You know, being a human message board where his dad and brother can tack up their passive-aggressive non-interactions.

            “Let’s go for a walk,” Dean says, suddenly feeling stifled despite the spacious house. “You wanna go for a walk?”

            Cas, of course, agrees, and once Dean throws a jacket and shoes on they’re out the door, where the earth is starting to warm up with the rising sun.

            “I love fall,” Dean says when they head into the woods, which he doesn’t figure Cas cares much but he says it anyway because he feels it. “It’s probably my favorite.” Autumn’s also the saddest for him, in a way. It’s the season when his mom died, when Sam left for school for the first time.

            “It suits you,” Cas says, and they tread in silence for a moment, focusing on not slipping on the mats of wet leaves.

            Dean, without really thinking about it, leads Cas through thicker woods toward the lake, which is about another half-mile of walking but Cas doesn’t protest. There’s a thinly beaten path that’s been carved away by footprints, and they follow it single-file, breaths jagged and misted in the quiet.

            Dean’s breath hitches when he catches sight of the lake, smoothed completely over like a sheet of glass, and it’s nothing remarkable, even—more like an oversized pond, at least in this part of the woods, but Dean likes it. It feels like a refuge from the rest of the world.

            The woods open up into a clearing with a small dock that extends out over the lake, and Dean heads toward it with Cas following shortly behind.

            “I recognize this place,” Cas says a moment later.

            “You do?” Dean asks, glancing over his shoulder in surprise. “You been here before?”

            “You have,” Cas says, his eyes soft and distant as he surveys the lake. His gaze shifts to Dean and locks there. “You dream about this place sometimes.”

            Dean turns back to look out over the lake, feeling an implacable sensation wash over him. He thinks it might be peace.

            “You creepin’ on my dreams?” Dean asks, and the echo of his voice skips over the water like a stone in the quiet.

            “For the most part, I’ve been welcome,” Cas says, pocketing his hands and stepping up to bump his shoulder with Dean’s. “You come here when you want to be happy, to escape.”

            For a long time they stand there completely wordless, listening to the hushed creak of the dock rocking and the lap of water against the wood and the shore.

            There’s something in the serenity of the silence that’s too familiar, too rife with possibilities, like he and Cas, if they stay here long enough, have a shot at being this content all the time. Peace isn’t in the cards for Dean, not long-term.

            “Wish I brought a fishing pole,” Dean says to break it.

            After a few more moments of tranquil quiet, Dean turns back toward the house and Cas follows his cue. They begin the trek back through the woods in silence, Dean following behind Cas and idly watching the way the light through the amber trees catches the worn plaid of his shirt and illuminates the golden fuzz of the fabric starting to wear. Just once, Cas turns while he’s walking to glance back at Dean, like he’s checking just to make sure he’s still there with him, and Dean offers a tiny smile.

            Cas starts to smile back and almost trips on a tree root jutting out from the wet earth; he manages to catch his balance but not before Dean stumbles into him, catching him by his shoulder-blades with his fingers outstretched.

            Dean gives a quiet snort of laughter, keeping his hands in place on the warm, firm shape of him. “Klutz.”

            Cas is halfway to a grin when his eyes fasten on something out of Dean’s eyeshot and his expression shifts into something more solemn, more sad. Dean takes a small step sideways, poking his head around Cas’ shoulder to see what’s up.

            It takes Dean a second to realize exactly what he’s looking at—it’s a dead bird of some kind, wings splayed out with its charcoal feathers crooked in places, its white breast bowed outward and its small black legs pointing straight up. Its head is tilted sideways, its beak slightly ajar and its eyes closed.

            Cas moves toward it, bending his knees not to slip on the slope of moist leaves.

            “Cas, don’t touch that,” Dean warns. “It’s probably got rabies or something.”

            Dean doesn’t really know what he expected, but Cas ignores him and stoops to pick up the bird in one hand, cradling it gently in his palm as though it’s still at risk to break. Dean watches in silence, feeling the subtle but palpable shift in atmosphere on Cas’ end and not sure what to make of it. It’s somber, almost bitter to the taste.

            Together, they walk back to the house without speaking, Cas carrying the dead bird the whole way.

\---

**February 10, 2005**

            Cas doesn’t show up again until February.

            Dean’s taking a hot shower, closing his eyes and tilting his head back into the warm spray as he tries to relax the tension in every muscle of his body. He tends to carry his stress in his shoulders, which results in knots and headaches that make his job a hell of a lot harder. He reaches one hand up to absently rub at the taut bridge between his shoulder blade and his neck, hoping to self-massage away some of the pain.

            He raises two hands and runs them through his wet hair, sluicing the water from it before almost thoughtlessly templing his hair into a spiked mohawk. It’s this weird little shower ritual he’s picked up, mostly because he thinks he can remember his mom playfully giving him one whenever she’d give him a bath. Dean’s not sure if he’s fabricated the memory or not, but he does it anyway, more out of habit than anything.

            The bathroom’s way too cold when he steps out, despite the steam fogging the mirror—he’s practically shivering when he wraps a towel around his waist and snags an extra rag to ruffle through his dripping hair.

            He suddenly goes very, very still when he hears the TV out in the main room, which he’s damn sure had been turned off when he got in the shower.

            Dean only hesitates a second before he’s scouring the bathroom for a weapon, given his gun and knife are stowed in his duffel at the foot of his bed. He curses under his breath when his search results in nothing substantial, the cold of the bathroom forgotten as he grabs for the plunger, which is lame but could probably do good work in Dean’s hands, all things considered.

            For a moment, he hovers outside the door, listening for any telling sound other than the game show he can hear blaring on TV, before he shoulders the door open with a loud snap and bursts out into the main room, plunger wielded.

            Cas blinks at him, fully clothed and perched on the edge of Dean’s bed. His shoes are missing.

            “God _dammit,_ ” Dean says, dropping the plunger. “For Christ’s sake, Cas, _knock._ ”

            “You seemed occupied,” Cas says, just as irritably. “Were you really going to bludgeon me to death with a plunger?”

            “You didn’t leave me much choice, did you?” Dean snaps, not actually pissed but still on edge with fading adrenaline. Silence builds between them for a moment, in which Dean is _very_ acutely reminded that he’s naked, save for the coarse hotel towel pinned around his waist.

            Dean twitches, stepping one foot back into the safety of the bathroom. Cas’ eyes flicker up and down, taking him in, nothing but curious, but Dean can still feel a rush of blood creeping up his neck, steadily toward his face.

            “And believe me,” Dean adds, just for something to break the increasingly tense silence. “I could do serious damage with a plunger. Don’t underestimate me.”

            Cas narrows his eyes, almost teasing now. “Oh, I don’t.”

            Maybe it’s just because Dean’s sans clothes and his nipples are hard enough to crack glass that the words sound flirtatious, and he suddenly remembers, with a spark of heat in his gut, the afternoon at Bobby’s—all of that stifling heat, with no place to vent it.

Which, as for the nudity, it’s honestly not like Dean cares that much—as far as he’s seen, Cas has the same parts that he does, and given the dude’s literally older than balls, Dean guesses he’s seen a fair share of...parts, in his time.

            Still, it feels weird. Different. With Cas.

            Cas’ tongue briefly pokes out to wet his lips, which in any other situation might seem innocuous, but in this moment, it feels intentional, sexual—which holy hell, Cas has been here, what, two minutes?

            “Good to see you, Cas,” Dean says, his throat dry.

            “You too, Dean,” Cas says, much more softly. “I’m sorry I didn’t knock. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

            “It’s all cool,” Dean says, waving a hand and using the other to hitch the towel more securely over his hips. “Sorry that you came when I was, uh. You know.”

            “It’s okay,” Cas says with a faint, amused smile. “Now we’re even.”

            Even, right. Dean’s definitely flushing now, thinking back to Cas leaning naked against the doorway of the school’s classroom, which he’s never ever gonna admit to himself has been in the spank bank for at least a year now.

            Cas seems to sense Dean’s discomfort, because he switches subjects smoothly and asks, “What day is it?”

            “Oh, uh,” Dean says, then closes his eyes to concentrate. “February…9th? 10th? It’s hard to keep track.”

            Cas nods thoughtfully, running his palms along the seams of his borrowed jeans. “Not too bad.”

            “Not too bad,” Dean agrees, swallowing. “I’m gonna get dressed.”

            “Feel free,” Cas says, and turns his gaze pointedly back to the TV screen, giving Dean an out to fumble around embarrassingly as he roots through his duffel for clean underwear and clothes without old food on them.

            When he emerges from the bathroom dressed in sleep-clothes, Cas is leaning back against the headboard, his legs crossed at the ankles and his arms folded over his chest. The reflective colors of the TV flicker across his face as his gaze leaves the screen and travels to meet Dean’s.

            “Hi,” Dean says, rubbing one hand along his opposite arm. He shuffles awkwardly for a moment in his sweatpants and bare feet, not really sure why he’s acting so on edge and fidgety all of a sudden. It’s just Cas, after all.

            “Hi,” Cas echoes, then scoots over on the bed in a clear invitation.

            Dean almost protests, but just sighs, padding his way over to the bed and thumping into it like a sack of rocks, dropping his head briefly on Cas’ shoulder. He feels Cas’ cheek rest against the top of his head before the moment’s over, the reunion ritual quietly shattered, both of them drifting incrementally from each other’s space.

            “What’re you watching?” Dean asks on a yawn, feeling his jaw pop with the motion.

            “A show called Family Feud,” Cas says, his mouth fixed into a concentrated frown. “Some of the answers the contestants give are quite lewd.”

            Dean huffs quiet laughter, closing his eyes.

            Cas, as it turns out, is a shitty watching partner, because he conks out just moments later, his chin slowly dropping against his chest and his eyes fluttering in a futile attempt to stay awake. Dean watches all this out the corner of his eye with a poorly concealed grin; he finds the whole thing pretty funny, but Cas is just barely endearing enough to avoid teasing or torment—just barely. By the end of the round, Cas is out, his head lolled slightly to the side and his mouth ajar.

            “Gotta say, you’re a pretty crappy date, Cas,” Dean mutters, shifting minutely so his shoulder slides under Cas’ cheek, giving him a support to rest his head on. He watches the rest of the show in silence, focused absently on the rhythm of Cas’ breathing against his chest.

            When _Family Feud_ ends and switches over on to _The Price is Right,_ Cas moves, curling sideways so he’s essentially one-way spooning Dean. Dean rolls his eyes and shifts his shoulders but allows it, briefly cupping a hand to Cas’ side. If Cas drools into his shoulder, he doesn’t complain.

            By the morning, Cas is gone, but the warmth of him sleeping next to Dean remains for the rest of the day.


	10. Chapter 10

**October 30, 2005**

Dean likes Halloween. For the most part. Granted, he’d spent most of them in his teenage years ganking spirits that dumbass drunken teens had accidentally resurrected in graveyards with his dad and Sam—his dad had liked to joke that Halloween meant they were “in business”—but, still. He likes the spirit of it. Pun and all.

            He’s back in Kansas just for the weekend after wrapping up a voodoo case down in New Orleans. Not Lawrence, but Lawrence-adjacent. He hasn’t put a foot toward home since what had happened, and he doesn’t really plan on it. When he even thinks about it, he can still feel the hot fan of flames on his face, the sound of his mother screaming, smoke choking off his lungs, the weight of Sam like lead in his arms.

            That night was the first and only time Dean had seen his dad cry.

            So yeah, firm and resounding no to Lawrence.

            Still, he’d had some fun Halloweens in his day, he thinks as he wanders down the street back to where the Impala is parked on the next lot over. There’s a small street festival of some sort going on where vendors are selling holiday-themed stuff, and Dean’s just being a polite guy if he graciously accepts every caramel apple handed his way.

            There’d been one time when his dad had been out of town that he’d actually taken Sam trick-or-treating. It’d been before Sam knew about everything, so it was easier, simpler to go along with it and pretend like they were two normal kids on a normal Halloween, and that their dad was a normal guy on a work trip for the weekend and not killing things that neighborhood kids were dressing up as. Sam had wanted to go as a ghost, which Dean firmly nixed, so Sam ended up being some kind of superhero. Dean had dragged him to the nearest thrift store and they’d pawed through bins of hand-me-down Halloween costumes in the back corner of the store.

            Dean had gone as a firefighter. The costume had been a little snug, probably meant for someone younger than him, but Dean had liked it anyway. It made him feel important, heroic.

            “Why don’t you wanna be a superhero?” Sam had asked with a small frown as he adjusted his facemask so it didn’t slide down his nose.

            “I _am_ a superhero,” Dean had explained, stepping forward to tie Sam’s cape a little tighter around his neck so it wouldn’t slip off. “Just the real-world kind. I save real people, not just in movies and comic books.”

            “Ohhh,” Sam had said, eyes wide, and he’d been so impressionable at that age—that’s when he’d drank in every word Dean said as gospel, the unspoken big brother hero complex, before he grew up and got stubborn. Before he grew out of looking up to Dean or being around him, for that matter.

            The caramel apple tastes kind of bitter in Dean’s mouth now, and he makes a face as he chews his way through the hardened caramel.

            He’s got no plans for Halloween this year, but he figures he can sneak into a frat party and maybe make out with some cute girls in skimpy costumes for a nice distraction.

            Dean’s almost back to the car, in the middle of tossing the candy apple stick into a patch of grass, when his phone goes off. For a weird, clairvoyant moment, he wonders if it’s actually gonna be Sam, but a quick glance at his call-screen confirms it’s actually Bobby.

            “Yeah?” he says when he flips the phone up, catching the screen between his shoulder and cheek as he swings open the front car door.

            “Where are you right now?” Bobby says, cutting no corners.

            Dean frowns at the weird note in Bobby’s tone. “I’m in Olathe. Why?”

            “I’ve got some bad news and some worse news,” Bobby says in a heavy, foreboding voice that makes something in Dean’s stomach flip uncomfortably.

            “As always,” Dean says, keeping his voice sour to hide it. “Shoot.”

            “Bad news is that there’s been a string of killings over the span of several years along the west coast. California, to be specific,” Bobby says, and Dean leaves the key in the ignition as he waits for Bobby to finish. “Now all the details, I’m not exactly sure.”

            “What’s the worse news?”

            “Worse news is that your dad took off to take care of it about three weeks ago,” Bobby says. “I haven’t heard from him since, and I’m gonna place safe bets that you haven’t either.”

            That sinking feeling is back in full swing now, nausea curling up in his stomach at the implications of the words.

            “So?” Dean says, forcing himself to sound flippant. “Dad always gets shitty with communicating around hunts, that’s nothin’ new.”

            “I’ve got a bad feeling about this, Dean,” Bobby says. “Usually he at least checks in with me to let me know the case has been tied up. He didn’t even tell me he was leavin’—made some excuse about making a pit-stop in Jericho before he got to the ‘real case,’ whatever that means. I’d go out there myself but I’m hands-full with three cases here.”

            Dean gnaws on his lower lip, hesitating before he speaks. Bobby waits patiently.

            “You think I should go out there?” he asks quietly.

            “I don’t think it could hurt, just to see if there’s anything fishy going on,” Bobby agrees. “But _be careful,_ Dean, especially since you’re by yourself.”

            Dean swallows the thick lump in his throat before he switches his phone to the other ear. “You…you really think something happened to Dad?”

            “I ain’t ruling it out,” Bobby says. “Even experts get blindsided on the job sometimes.”

            “Okay,” Dean says with a determined nod. “I’ll head out there. I’ll bring him back.”

            “Be careful,” Bobby stresses again. “I hesitated even making this call, but I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t think it was something worth looking into.”

            “Yeah,” Dean says, starting the car with a loud rumble. “Thanks, Bobby.”

            “You heard from Sam?” Bobby asks suddenly, and Dean’s a bit thrown by the question.

            “Uh, no,” Dean says, then thinks, _shockingly._ “Why?”

            “This might be something you should give him the heads-up on,” Bobby says. “You’ll be in the area and I’d like someone else to know you’re out there. He’ll be able to keep closer tabs on you than I will.”

            “Sam doesn’t want anything to do with hunting,” Dean says with a snort. “He’d probably punch me in the face if I showed up and messed up his college mojo.”

            “He’s your brother,” Bobby says, exasperated. “I’m not saying drag him into the damn witch-hunt with you. Just let him know you’re there.”

            “Okay,” Dean says, but the idea’s taken root before he can stop it—showing up to get Sam, hitting the road like old times, taking on the world side-by-side. He kind of hates Bobby for putting it there. “I’ll…give him a call.”

            “Thanks, Dean,” Bobby says. “Be careful and keep me updated.” And he hangs up.

            For a long while after Dean sits there with the car running, just thinking before he makes his mind up.

            He unhinges the glove compartment and fishes around for the U.S. map he’s kept there since forever—it’s probably not updated, but it has what he needs.

            He unfolds the map in his lap and with one finger tracks the fastest route to Palo Alto.

\---

            Dean’s about halfway through Colorado when a loud thud from the back of the car causes him to nearly careen off the highway—he narrowly avoids slamming into the guard-rail lining the road, which would be non-ideal, given in the mountains the road-drop is a safe thousand feet.

            Heart hammering, he checks the rearview only to meet dazed blue eyes blinking back at him.

            “Sorry, Dean.”

            “Jesus _Christ,_ ” he breathes out, rubbing his eyes.“ _Don’t_ do that.”

            “I can’t help it,” Cas says, squirming to fit over the front bench-seat to take the shotgun spot. Dean ducks his head as one of Cas’ thighs barely misses thwacking him in the temple.

            “ _Dude!_ I’m driving.”

            “Sorry,” Cas repeats, sounding completely winded as he sinks into the leather seat. “I count it fortunate that I actually landed in the car this time.”

            Dean’s pulse is still pounding away, and he takes deep breaths to steel himself, tightening his hands on the wheel.

            “Long time no see,” he eventually says, hyperaware of Cas’ usual scrutiny. “How’s the time vortex?”

            “Nauseating,” Cas replies, and when Dean glances over, he does look a shade paler, a sheen of sweat beading on his forehead. “What month is it?”

            “It’s Halloween,” Dean says, then adds, for a frame of reference, “2005.”

            Cas looks at him oddly slantwise, taking another moment before speaking, maybe catching his breath. “And where are we?”

            “Colorado,” Dean says, and he hears his terse, clipped tone clearly and almost feels bad about it. Because it’s not Cas he’s mad at. He’s just…got a lot on his mind.

            “Is everything okay?” Cas asks, with the kind of timing that as usual prompts Dean to question if he’s actually a telepath, despite Cas’ protests that he lost that ability a while ago.

            Dean almost answers with a lie, a chipper, _Yeah, everything’s fine,_ but there’s really no point to being dishonest with Cas. He’s really not in the mood for the Spanish Inquisition anyway, which he’ll surely get.

            “No,” he says with a short, humorless laugh. “Not really.”

            “What’s happened?”

            “My dad’s missing,” Dean says in a tight voice, readjusting his knuckles on the wheel. “I’m driving out to find him.”

            “Oh,” Cas says in a soft voice, and doesn’t say anything for several moments.

            “I know you don’t really care,” Dean adds bitterly, “given you hate the bastard. But I’m actually worried about him, so—”

            “Dean,” Cas interrupts, sounding appalled. “You know I wouldn’t actively wish any harm or malice on your father. I know what he means to you, even if I disagree with some of his…choices. Please don’t mistake my protectiveness over you with callousness.”

            Which, Dean knows that Cas hadn’t really deserved that—knows that rationally. He’s brimmed with nervous, angry energy, itching to punch something, to yell until his throat’s raw.

            “Sorry,” Dean says, closing his eyes tiredly. “I know that. I’m just worried.”

            “Where was he last seen? I’ll help if I can.”

            “Jericho, California,” Dean says. “Heard of it?”

            Cas takes another long moment before responding; he sounds like he’s mincing words when he speaks. “Yes, I’ve heard of it. But I’ve heard of most places.”          

            “That’s not really helpful.”

            “I know.”

            “I’m gonna pick up Sam,” Dean says with a firm nod to himself, already steeling himself for a rebuttal from Cas. “Bobby told me not to, but I don’t care. I want him in on this.”

            Again, the long hesitation before Cas speaks up again. Dean’s starting to get suspicious.

            “Is that wise?” Cas says, tone careful.

            “I don’t give a shit if it’s wise. Our dad’s missing, could be dead or in serious trouble. I figure he’d actually give a fuck about that, but you know, with Sam these days, it’s hard to know.” Dean swallows hard, pressing his toe harder into the gas pedal so the Impala accelerates.

            Cas closes his eyes and tilts his head back into the headrest; Dean steals a glance over at him, taking the brief moment he can to refamiliarize himself with Cas’ features, the heavy, tired swoops under his eyes.

            “I’m glad you’re here,” he says a moment later, his voice sounding gruff even to his own ears. Cas’ eyes slowly crack open. “I don’t want it to sound like…you know, that I don’t care. It’s…it’s nice, it’s good to have someone with me for scary shit like this.”

            “I’ll do what I can, of course,” Cas says in a low voice, turning to look Dean in the eye, and for a second, Dean loses track of the road. “For as long as I’m here, I’ll help.”

            “How long do you think that’ll be?” Dean asks, forcing himself to refocus on the highway.

            “That’s the bad news,” Cas says. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted to hear it.”

            Dean feels his mouth twist grimly. “All I’m getting is bad news lately. Hit me.”

            “My clock’s running out.” Cas’ voice is soft, uneven, eyes focused wholly on Dean. “It has been for a while, but I feel that it’s…closing in on me, even more so than before. I don’t have much time left.”

            Dean closes his eyes, feeling the painful resonation of those words like someone’s banged a bongo drum in his chest. “Fantastic.”

            Cas doesn’t say anything.

            “How will I know?” Dean says, his tone flat.

            “You won’t,” Cas says quietly. “Like I said, I’ll have never existed. You won’t remember me.”

            “That’s bullshit.”

            Cas shrugs, weary. “It’s how it is.”

            “Fuck that,” Dean says, grinding how his teeth so hard that he feels it in his skull. “ _Fuck_ that, Cas.”

            “You’ll be okay without me,” Cas says, and Dean hates the note of consolation in it, the implicit farewell. “Maybe even better off.”

            Dean feels words bubble up in his throat like acid, and he swallows them down with difficulty.

            He reaches into his pocket and yanks out his phone, just for something, anything to occupy his hands.

            “Don’t text and drive,” Cas says, a quiet reprimand.

            “Why the hell would I do that?” Dean flips up his phone, and he feels his heart skip a double-beat when he sees (1) missed call and voicemail from his dad. “ _Shit._ ”

            “Dean?”

            Dean punches in John’s number by heart, his pulse racing again, but it goes straight to voicemail. He tries again, and again, but gets the voicemail every time.

            “My dad tried to call me,” Dean says, pulling back his phone to stare at the screen. “He called me and I missed it.”

            “So he’s alive,” Cas says reassuringly.

            “Yeah, as of five minutes ago. What if he tried to call me for help? Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ —”

            “Dean,” Cas says, dropping a placating hand on Dean’s shoulder. Dean almost flinches away from the touch. “He’s going to be fine. He was probably trying to get a hold of you when his phone died.”

            “He left a voicemail,” Dean says, putting the phone to his ear to listen.

            He listens to the message again, and again, and again, his blood running cold. His palms start to sweat and stick on the steering wheel.

            “What did he say?” Cas asks after several moments, sounding more on edge than before.

            Dean just shakes his head, still feeling chills sweeping up his arms and back down. He punches the speakerphone button. “Listen.”

            Cas tilts an ear toward the phone, concentrating.

            “Dean,” his dad’s voice says, the message spritzing with static. “Something big is starting to happen. I need to try to figure out what’s going on—” Another patch of static breaks up the words before the message resumes. “Be very careful, Dean. We’re all in danger—” And the line goes dead.

            “He’s in trouble,” Dean says in a thick voice, feeling a huge pit take root in his stomach. “ _Fuck._ I knew it.”

            “Play it again,” Cas says, and Dean does. Cas’ head is still angled down, leaning so close to Dean that the top of his hair tickles his cheek.

            “Do you hear that?” Cas asks after the message ends again.

            “Hear what?”

            “There’s some sort of voice overlaid on top of your father’s, almost like an EMF recording. Perhaps you can’t hear it, given my senses are…well, sensitive, but—”

            Dean’s phone goes off again, and he nearly swerves the car in an effort to grab the call, so sharply that Cas protests, “ _Dean,_ ” as he’s thrown into the side of the passenger door.

            “Dean,” Bobby says on the pickup, and Dean’s heart crashes in disappointment. “I’ve got a few files on the Jericho case I’m going to fax over to you.”

            “I don’t exactly have a portable printer,” Dean snaps, for some reason suddenly resentful that it’s Bobby’s voice on the other end.

            “Then find a damn library,” Bobby says, just as waspishly. “These are important, hear me? I’ve got files and articles from the _Jericho Herald_ that I’m sending your way. It’s details on the disappearances dating back 20 years. If I’ve got them, you can damn well bet your dad’s got them too. Unless you, you know, don’t actually want them.”

            Dean swallows, his jaw working for a moment before he answers, grudgingly, “Thanks, Bobby.”

            “Yeah, yeah. Any news?”

            “I was just about to call you,” Dean says, and he can feel Cas’ eyes on him, tracking his every movement, and he tries not to get distracted by it. “Dad left me a voicemail, and it…it didn’t sound good. Something about telling me to be careful, something dangerous is going down. But Cas said that he heard—”

            “Cas is with you?” Bobby cuts in, sounding surprised, and Dean trades a glance with Cas. He’s still focused steadily on Dean, the calm in his eyes strangely grounding.

            “Yeah, Cas is here with me. He said he could hear traces of an EMF recording in the voicemail. I’m gonna run it through a goldwave the next time I stop to see if I can pick up what it says.”

            “Sounds good,” Bobby says in agreement. “Knew that angel was good for something.”

            Cas frowns in the direction of the phone, looking mock-affronted.

            Dean almost smiles. “Thanks for your help, Bobby. I’ll pull off in the next town over.”

            “It’s good that you heard from your dad, Dean,” Bobby says, like a last-minute attempt at a reassurance. “It means he’s okay.”

            “Yeah,” Dean says, nodding and swallowing hard. “And I’m gonna make damn sure it stays that way.”

            He hangs up and refocuses on following the sudden curve of the highway. He squares his jaw, working up the nerve before he finally asks, without looking at Cas, “Will you come with me?”

            In his periphery vision, he sees Cas blink at him in surprise. “What?”

            “Will you come with me to Jericho? I could seriously use your help on this, and besides.” He attempts a wry half-smile. “It’s about time you met my shithead brother.”

            “Sam and I have met multiple times,” Cas reminds him. “And I’m not sure if that’s the best idea, as much as I’d like to help.”

            Dean frowns, the words pulling his eyes from the road again. “Why not?”

            “At the risk of meddling with future events, I’m not sure if I should get involved,” Cas says, his tongue poking out to wet his bottom lip. It seems an awful lot like a nervous tic, which is weird, for Cas.

            With a funny, unpleasant taste in his mouth, Dean suddenly wonders if Cas knows all about this, knows how it ends—if it ends with his dad alive or dead. Surely if it ended with something bad happening to his dad, Cas would know all about it. His future self would’ve filled him in for sure.

            He opens his mouth to ask, almost against his better judgment, but a glint of gold catches his attention: a splinter of light illuminating the veins of the inner crease of Cas’ elbow. Cas blinks down at it, then looks up to meet Dean’s eyes sadly.

            “No, you can’t,” Dean says, stricken. “You—you _just_ got here, you can’t already be leaving.”

            “I told you,” Cas says in a hushed voice, light starting to stream from his mouth. “My time is running out, Dean.”

            “You can’t,” Dean says again, reaching out to grab Cas’ arm and squeeze tightly. Some part of him knows he’s still driving a car at 65 miles per hour on a narrow mountain stretch, but he can’t look away from the way Cas’ arm glows gold under his hand, light pouring out from between the slats of his own fingers. “You can’t leave me yet.”

            “I’m so sorry, Dean,” Cas says, and in a quick movement, takes Dean’s hand and holds it tight, then lets go. “I know you’ll find your father, and I know you’ll reunite with Sam again. I have every amount of faith in you that you’ll pull through this.”

            “Cas,” he says, and he hates the pained note of desperation in his voice, that gut part of him that recoils at the idea of Cas leaving for months on end. _We barely even got to talk,_ he wants to say, looking at Cas’ stupid, beautiful face, _we barely even got a chance to be with each other._ It feels cruelly unfair, having Cas back so briefly and losing him just as fast.

            “I’ll land as often as I can,” Cas says, his whole body illuminated now, making Dean squint painfully into the beaming light. “It’s selfish of me, but I’ll—I’ll come back as often as I’m able, I promise, Dean.”

            The outpour of light gets blinding then, so blinding that Dean’s eyes screw shut and he slams on the car’s brakes so he won’t crash. When he cracks open his eyes again, the passenger seat is vacant, barely an imprint in the leather to suggest Cas was even there.

            “Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” he says to the empty car, and after another moment, he starts to drive again.

\---

            Dean doesn’t see Cas for a while after that. For once, he doesn’t really notice—he’s too busy trying not to die at the hands of wendigos and mutant mass-murdering clones of himself and swarms of pissed-off, sentient insects. His dad—who’s very much alive, apparently—has fucked off into a black hole and Dean’s trying not to throttle Sam half the time, who _is_ back on the case with Dean again and who’s pretty much hating every minute of it.

            Sam’s been pretty fucked up since he lost Jess, and Dean’s not really the best grief counselor so he just stays quiet about it for the most part. He’s honestly just happy Sam’s back with him at his side for something like this, to deal with whatever it is their dad’s hunting that’s getting realer by the day. This whole thing seems more manageable with Sam riding shotgun, even if Dean can tell that every second of being back in the Impala for Sam is making him a little bit more miserable.

            So what if Dean’s selfish for wanting him back? He thinks he’s entitled to that.

            Dean’s worried about Sam, as always, on top of everything else—he’s started fighting things in his sleep with more vehemence than he ever had in his night terrors as a kid. Sam’s either not sleeping and pretending that he is or yelling at imaginary monsters in the rare moments that he _does_ sleep, and Dean tells himself repeatedly that it’s the grief process over losing Jessica, even if that deeply buried gut instinct in him whispers that it’s something else, something more. Sam reassures him each time with drooping eyes that it’s nightmares about Jess, so Dean lets himself believe it. And hey, he’d been there too. He’d had night terrors every night for a year after Mom had died.

            Hunting’s always been easier with Sam, though. Despite his protests to the contrary, the kid’s always had a natural knack for the sport, so killing things gets twice as effective with him around, even if the cases seem to get trickier by the week.

            Dean’s decided to basically ignore the fact that their dad doesn’t want anything to do with him, if he _is_ still alive, which Dean thinks he might be. The alternative, the one where his dad is alive and doesn’t give a crap enough to call when both his kids are scared shitless, is somehow worse to him, in some ways. After one of their cases leads them back to Lawrence with still no word, Dean—in some bleak and horrible part of himself way deep down, the part of himself that he accesses to kill things without blinking—prefers to think their dad’s dead.

            Dean also doesn’t tell Sam about Cas. He doesn’t really know where to start—like, at point “angel” or point “time-travel” or point “kind of my friend for the last 4 years”—or how to explain what their relationship even is, because he’s not sure himself. Friend, maybe, except every time Dean pictures telling Sam that with a straight face, he gets a too-vivid flashback of trying to kiss Cas at the bar on his birthday, how badly he’d wanted it, how Cas had almost just given in and wanted him right back, and he’s reminded all over again that he doesn’t have the fucking foggiest over what Cas is to him, now or later.

It’s easy to pretend, in the long stretches of time Cas isn’t there, that it’s nothing, but Dean would be completely lying to himself if his heart didn’t do a small river-dance in his chest at even the thought of Cas showing up again. He _also_ ignores the fact that his dick occasionally does a small river-dance in his pants over certain dreams involving said semi-friend, but that’s obviously not really relevant.

            It’s a confusing mess in a bigger confusing mess of his life, so Dean doesn’t touch it around Sam. He figures he’ll find out sooner or later anyway, given Cas had promised he would drop back in some time.

            Sometime after they leave Lawrence, en route to nowhere in particular, given they’ve got no clue where Dad is and no home to speak of, Sam picks up on a case in Wisconsin.

            “According to local news, some of the cemetery’s graves have gotten uprooted,” Sam’s saying, slotting the Impala’s residential flashlight between his teeth so he can flip to the next page of articles he’s got printed. Dean keeps his eyes focused on the dark highway, trying to keep his eyebrow from the skeptical arch he can feel it creeping to. Sam removes the flashlight from his mouth before he speaks.

            “Local police think it’s a bunch of kids vandalizing the gravesites, but they’ve also found traces of blood and chunks of…eugh. Chunks of dead flesh. In the surrounding grass. So they’re not ruling out something more sinister.”

            “Doesn’t mean it’s a ghoul, Sammy.”

            “Dean,” Sam says, narrowing his eyes and beaming the flashlight Dean’s way so it temporarily blinds him.

            “ _Watch_ it,” Dean snaps, throwing up one arm to shield his eyes.

            “Those are all the telltale signs of a ghoul case and you know it,” Sam says, raising both eyebrows in his dumb, infuriating, know-it-all way. “Dad would for sure check this out. We’ve taken cases based on less.”

            “Yeah, well, as happy as I am that you’re taking up the hunting torch again,” Dean says, glaring sideways until Sam clicks off the flashlight. “I think our main priority here is finding Dad.”

            “You don’t think I want to find him too?” Sam retorts. “I’m as worried about him as you are. But right now we’ve got no clues, no lead on where he is, so we might as well help where we can. It won’t be long till these things run out of dead bodies to ravage from and start taking matters into their own hands.”

            “God, you’re annoying when you get self-righteous,” Dean grumbles, flicking on the Impala’s brights. “Fine, we’ll do the dumb ghoul case. But it’s not like some other hunter couldn’t take care of it.”

            Sam shuts up after that, clearly satisfied at least to a degree, and he nods off while Dean drives out the night.

\---

            “You sure this is a good idea?” Sam says with a sigh, his head disappearing as he rustles around in the Impala’s backseat for something.

            “Totally sure,” Dean replies, picking up one of the blades from the Impala’s trunk and testing the weight experimentally in his hand. “I’m the smarter brother, remember?”

            “Ha ha,” comes Sam’s sour, muffled reply from inside the car. “But seriously, I think we’d have the advantage if we trapped them in the daytime.”

            Dean shakes his head and slips the blade into the back of his waistband, surveying the empty street. “Nah. It’ll be way easier to lure them out this time of night. They’ll be here feeding and they’ve got no idea anyone’s coming. It’d be almost impossible to find them with the sun out.” He thinks about it for a moment then makes a face, giving a bodily shudder. “Creepy fucks.”

            Sam sighs again, much more pronouncedly, and backs up out of the Impala. Dean tosses him the spare blade, which Sam catches by the handle with a flat, unimpressed look.

            “Let’s roll,” Dean says, slamming the trunk shut and heading toward the cemetery’s back end.

            “I hate every minute of this, just as a disclaimer,” Sam whisper-yells after Dean as he follows after him.

            “I know you do,” Dean whisper-yells back, and they drop their voices completely as they near the gate guarding the perimeter of the cemetery. They hop the metal fence with no problem, keeping low to the ground before taking up crouched positions behind two of the larger gravestones.

            “And now, we wait,” Sam says, all hushed sarcasm, and Dean sighs, slumping his shoulder into the worn stone.

            They camp out long enough for Dean’s knee joints to ache in protest, which objectively can’t be _that_ long but it of course feels like hours with nothing to do but make faces at Sam and jump to arms at the softest of sounds.

            Finally, just when Dean’s about to give the hand-signal to Sam that they should throw the towel in and try another location, he catches the audible patter of dried leaves—the unmistakable sound of footsteps. Sam looks at him wide-eyed in question, and Dean gives one slow nod in response.

            Carefully, in the barest of movements, he peeks his head out from around the gravestone, squinting so his eyes adjust to the darkness. About thirty feet over, a group of three hunched figures are pawing at loose earth, digging dirt away at the grave with inhuman speed.

            Dean starts to creep forward, beckoning for Sam to follow, who hesitates before he complies. The closer they get to the ghouls, the more clearly Dean can pick up the sounds of grunting, slurping, the snapping of bones, the tearing of flesh. He makes a face and tries not to gag at even the thought of it, because it’s not like this isn’t in the job description, but he’s somehow never any less squicked by it.

            There’s a sudden snap of a twig nearby, and before Dean can even whirl to look, an unfamiliar voice calls out to the rest of the group, directly from behind them, “Well, well. Look who’s in time for dessert.”

            Sam springs up from the ground, swinging at the ghoul’s head baseball-style with a loud yell, but the ghoul leaps back, three times as fast as Sam.

            “ _Sam!_ ” Dean yells, but before the word’s even left his mouth he’s grabbed from behind and dragged across the ground, kicking and squirming.

            “Hunters, too,” one of the ghouls murmurs, leaning closer to Dean to inhale deeply as they pull him along. “Mmmmm.”

            “I’ve been craving some fresh blood,” the other ghoul with a grip on Dean says. “Corpses were starting to get a little bit stale.”

            The other ghoul laughs at the joke, and Dean thrashes harder to get away even as the ghouls pin both of his arms to the grassy ground.

            “Hey, Rourke,” one of the ghouls calls out to the third one, who’s still feasting on the half-decayed corpse a few feet over. “Grab his feet, will you?”

            The other ghoul, Rourke, gets to his feet, wiping blood from his mouth with his sleeve and loping over to steel Dean’s feet to the ground, not flinching in the slightest as Dean tries to kick out at his face.

            Dean can feel his heartbeat crashing frantically against the wall of his chest, adrenaline a familiar tang behind his teeth as his struggles weaken.

            “Don’t worry,” the first ghoul croons, running the back of a fingernail along the arch of Dean’s cheekbone. “We’ll drain you niiiiiice and slow.”

            “Go to hell,” Dean says through his teeth even as clawed fingernails tear open the fabric of his shirt, leaving his chest bare.

            The first ghoul digs one fingernail into the vein under Dean’s jaw, pressing nearly hard enough to break the skin, hard enough to hurt, for Dean to feel the throb of his own fast pulse. He casts his head up in a last desperate attempt to search for Sam, but he’s nowhere to be seen.

            “Got the knife?” the second ghoul asks Rourke, and Rourke nods and pulls out a long blade crusted with old, blackened blood from his belt. Dean’s stomach turns.

            “Where should we take him apart first?” the second ghoul muses, taking the knife from Rourke and tapping the tip of it to her tongue.

            “I’ll kill you,” Dean threatens in a low, furious voice. “I’ll fucking kill you all.”

            The ghouls laugh and pin his limbs down harder into the ground.

            “Of course you will, dear heart,” the second ghoul says, and places the tip of the knife to the dip of his breastbone. She digs the tip in and Dean feels the skin break with a sharp sting, blood flowing up under the cut, and the first ghoul leans forward to lap it away greedily. Dean closes his eyes, pain and nausea rolling through him, and tries not to panic as the knife digs deeper, the pain flaring harder.

            He won’t beg, he thinks through tearing eyes and gritted teeth as the knife shallowly slices a path down his chest, he won’t beg, not to them.

            The ghoul stops the knife above Dean’s stomach, pausing for a moment in contemplation.

            “The belly’s Rourke’s favorite part,” the second ghoul then says, and digs the knife in to the soft flesh of his abdomen.

            Dean loses all conscious thought for a second with the shock of the pain, cries out on instinct the first thing that comes to mind.

            A half-second later, he realizes he’d screamed Cas’ name.

            Another second passes, the ghouls maybe taken off-guard, before there’s a sudden, dark flash of movement and a loud screech, then a sickening squelch; through his watery vision, fading in and out, Dean sees one of the ghouls’ heads bounce on the grass and go rolling away.

            When Dean refocuses, he sees Cas whirling to decapitate another ghoul and thinks that he has to be imagining it, that he’s dead or hallucinating, but he loses his train of thought to the pain radiating through him.

            He cracks his eyes open in time to see Cas behead the last ghoul, his lip curled in a snarl and blood flecked along his right cheek. Dean has the sense to put his hands to his stomach in an attempt to stop the bloodflow before he blacks out for a second—when he comes to, Cas is standing now, holding him.

            “Dean, hold on,” Cas says, and it’s the first and only time Dean thinks he’s heard him sound panicked. “Just hold on, alright?”

            Dean means to answer, but just chokes out a low sob instead. He can feel blood everywhere, pouring out over his hands, wetting his chest. He feels a hand cupped on his face, and thinks he might have imagined that too.

            There’s the sudden familiar click of a gun nearby.

            “Put my brother down before I blow your brains out,” Sam says, and Dean catches glimpse of Sam aiming a handgun at the two of them, blood smeared down the side of his face and neck, matting down his hair on one side.

            “Sam,” Cas says. “We don’t have time for this. Dean’s badly hurt—”

            “Put him _down_!” Sam yells, something feral twisting his voice into a snarl. “I’m not fucking around.”

            Dean tightens his knuckles in the front of Cas’ shirt, gripping onto him in a silent plea.

            “Okay,” Cas says in an even voice to Sam, and Dean feels himself lowered to the ground, another shockwave of agony rolling through him at the sensation. Cas says to him then, in a low voice, “I’m going to try to heal you with the remaining grace I have, but you have to stay alive, Dean. Do you hear me?”

            Dean doesn’t reply; there’s blood bubbling up in his throat and he can’t speak, doesn’t have the energy to.

            “Now back away,” Sam says to Cas, taking an aggressive step forward. “I’m not negotiating.”

            “You know I’m not a ghoul,” Cas snaps back at him. “You’ve been a hunter long enough to know that. Now are you going to let me heal your brother or would you like to keep fucking with me?”

            Sam hesitates, clearly thrown by the unexpected response, but recovers just as quickly, keeping the gun poised. “What the hell are you then?”

            Cas doesn’t answer, just pushes up his sleeves to the elbow and places two gentle hands on Dean, one to his flayed chest and another to his stomach.

            “You don’t get to leave me,” Cas says to Dean through gritted teeth. “Not now.”

            Dean tries to say something, and Cas’ eyes snap to his in surprise.

            “What was that?”

            “Hyp…ocrite,” Dean chokes out, and gives a weak grin through a mouthful of blood.

            Cas blinks in disbelief, then almost smiles, then goes right back to looking worried.

            “Stay very still,” Cas says, gingerly tightening his fingers on Dean’s wounds. Dean sucks in a gasp of pain at the touch.

            “What are you doing to him?” Sam demands, still keeping the gun pointed at Cas’ head, but he sounds less hostile than before.

            There are two spots of heat pooling around the places Cas’ hands rest, and for a second, Dean thinks it’s the burning sensation of the pain, but as the distinct warmth seeps into the rest of his limbs, he can feel… _Cas_ , for a second. Behind his closed eyes, he can feel the warmth lighting him up, flaring bright. It doesn’t hurt—it feels strange, almost tingly, simultaneously icy and hot, but there’s something about the sensation that’s unique to anything he’s felt before, like he can feel being held in his mom’s arms or curling up with Sam under covers when they were still little. Something homey, safe, warm.

            It feels like pure love.

            Just as suddenly, the feeling recedes, the pain from his wounds diminished.

            Dean claps a hand to his healed stomach, running his fingers over the unblemished skin, and tilts his head back to gaze at Cas in shock.

            Cas nods to himself in satisfaction, droopy-eyed, and before Dean can say a word, Cas passes out. Dean sits up quickly to catch him by the shoulders, and if Cas’ head slumps onto his shoulder, Dean can’t find it in him to give a damn.

            He cups a hand to the nape of Cas’ neck before suddenly remembering they’ve got company.

            Dean glances over his shoulder to meet Sam’s stunned gaze, who’s lowered the gun and is watching the whole scene go down with his mouth hanging ajar.

            Sam snaps his mouth shut, swallows, then nods once.

            “So I guess you were busy when I was at Stanford?” he asks, clearly struggling to keep his voice neutral.

            Dean shrugs, trying not to look as sheepish as he feels. “Um. I was gonna tell you eventually.”

            “Start explaining, Dean,” Sam says, raising his eyebrows. “Now.”

            “I’ll tell you everything later, alright? Not that you’ll believe me either way. Help me get him to the car.”

            “Is he dead?” Sam asks doubtfully, taking one curious step forward. “Glad you’re okay, by the way. I…I thought I lost you there for a second, man.”

            “Yeah,” Dean says, turning to stare down at the top of Cas’ head. “Me too.”

            “Is he dead?” Sam asks again.

            “No,” Dean says, looping one of Cas’ limp arms around his shoulder. “But the last time he did this, it was way less damage on my end and he was already pretty wiped.”

            “He saved your life,” Sam says in awe, stopping in front of them with his wide eyes fixed on Cas.

            “Yeah, and then some,” Dean grumbles. “Grab his other arm, would you?”

            “Who the hell is this guy?” Sam asks, obeying Dean and taking up Cas’ other side. “And why the _hell_ am I just now finding out about this?”

            “Well hey, Sammy,” Dean says with a small puff of exertion as they start to pull Cas to the car. “You had your life at Stanford—I had mine.”

            “That’s not an answer, Dean.”

            “Whatever. I’m gonna keep an eye on him in the Impala while you clean up, good?”

            “Yeah, good,” Sam says. “I’ll make it fast.”

            For a moment, they walk in silence, both shouldering Cas’ weight—Dean’s still shaky, recovering from whatever juice it was that Cas had put in him. Love-juice or something. His whole being feels shaken up by it.

            “Hey, uh, Dean?” Sam asks. “Not to be, er, intrusive, or anything. But like. Are you guys…well. You know.”

            Dean stares at Sam uncomprehendingly for a second, still too distracted to process the words before he catches up.

            “No,” he says sharply, shaking his head. “No, we’re not—we’re just—we’re.”

            Sam slowly arches his eyebrows, watching Dean struggle with growing interest.

            “We’re friends, I guess,” Dean mutters, hating the heat he can feel in his cheeks. “I don’t really know. He’s been around for awhile.”

            “Awhile as in before I went to school?” Sam asks, astonished.

            “No, no—after.”

            “Does Dad know about him?”

            Dean can, very clearly, still hear the sharp _thwack_ of Cas punching John in the face. “They’ve met.”

            “Bobby too?”

            “Oh yeah, they’re tight.”

            “Unbelievable,” Sam says, almost sounding hurt. “Everyone knew about this guy except for me? Who the fuck is he, Dean?”

            “His name’s Cas,” Dean says, stopping once they get to the Impala. “And he’s maybe about to be dead because of me.”

            “Wait,” Sam says in realization, and Dean can practically hear the gears churning in his head as the pieces come together. “Cas _,_ as in _Castiel_ , that thing you asked me to help you hunt like, years ago? This is it?”

            Sam, unfortunately, has always possessed too sharp a memory for Dean’s own good.

            “He’s not an it,” Dean says, oddly offended on Cas’ behalf. “Help me get him in the car.”

            “Is he connected to the Mo Tanner case?” Sam keeps going, his voice sharpening with the words. “You had a lead this _whole time_ and you didn’t bother to—”

            “No,” Dean interrupts, gently shifting Cas’ head on the seat so he’s not too uncomfortable. “But Mo Tanner’s case is the reason he ended up here.”

            “What’s that supposed to mean?”

            “Just.” Dean sighs, his head suddenly swimming at the thought of roping Sam into the time travel-slash-God exists conversation tonight. He’d almost died a minute ago, after all. “Go clean up the bodies and I’ll explain later, okay?”

            “Will you?” Sam says, in a snotty tone that Dean’s really come to hate. “Or would you like to lie some more?”

            _Your whole life is a lie,_ Dean wants to throw back, Sam’s stupid Stanford apartment at the front of his mind, but that would be a step too far, so he bites back the comeback and says, “Just shut up and clean up the bodies.”

            “ _Just shut up and clean up the bodies,_ ” Sam mimics, slamming the back door of the Impala shut. “Story of my life.”

            “Always so melodramatic,” Dean mutters, and crawls into the backseat to wait out Sam’s return with a still-unconscious Cas. Dean takes a second just to look at him, in a moment where he knows he won’t get caught doing it.

            It’s kind of a weird thing to do, but after another quiet minute, Dean wets his thumb and starts to rub away at the dry ghoul blood still flaking on Cas’ cheek. Cas’ eyes flutter at the touch and slowly roll open; Dean stops.

            “Cas?” he says, giving his shoulder a soft shake. “Hey.”

            “Where are we?” Cas mutters in a gravelly voice, blinking hard into the darkness of the car.

            “Back of the Impala, 2006,” Dean says, feeling mushy with relief that Cas had actually woken up. “Sam’s gonna clean up and then we’re gonna go. Are you okay?”

            “I’ll live,” Cas says, then huffs a quiet, derisive laugh. “For a little while, anyway.”

            “Stop it,” Dean says, continuing his ministrations to get rid of the blood. His thumb stops and hovers near the corner of Cas’ mouth, and Cas’ sleepy eyes meet his, hooded with intent. His throat dry, Dean gently places the pad of his thumb to the well of Cas’ lower lip, and Cas’ lips close around it, gaze still locked with Dean’s. Dean can’t breathe.

            When Dean pulls his thumb away, Cas’ mouth is slick with spit and Dean almost leans in, almost pulls the whole _fuck it, I almost died_ thing from the movies, but he doesn’t.

            “You could’ve killed yourself, pulling that stunt,” he says instead.

            “I didn’t,” Cas replies, plain as anything. “And that ‘stunt’ was infinitely more important than whatever my life is worth.”

            “Don’t be stupid,” Dean snaps, pulling his hand away.

            “My time’s almost up, Dean,” Cas says, which is quickly becoming Dean’s least favorite combination of words. “But yours isn’t. You still have an entire life to live ahead of you.”

            Dean shakes his head and closes his eyes, eager to switch topics. “What was that stuff you put in me?”

            “Stuff?” Cas echoes, blinking tiredly.

            “Yeah, that…that presence that I felt. When you healed me.”

            “That was my grace,” Cas says, his eyes sliding closed. “What’s left of it, anyway.”

            “Do you still have some?”

            “Yes,” Cas says. “Hopefully still enough to cancel out the temporal force, but if not, I’m certain you and Sam will have a plan B.”

            “It felt…nice,” Dean says, with lack of a better word to describe it. Cas’ eyes flicker open and meet his again. Dean swallows. “It felt…warm. Peaceful.”

            “It’s the most pure form of my being,” Cas says softly. “The essence of my very existence. My grace is to me as your soul is to you.”

            “I didn’t want it to leave,” Dean confesses, not even really sure the magnitude of what he’s admitting to.

            Cas’ mouth curls in a small half-smile, his warm gaze tracing Dean’s features. “And likewise. I had to pry it away.”

            Dean smiles back, a little incredulous, still feeling a little high from the grace-juice or whatever. He has a feeling it might make him do something stupid.

            Sam bangs on the back window with a fist, causing both of them to jump.

            “Bodies are done,” he says through the glass, looking between Dean and Cas impassively. “Let’s go.”

            Halfway through the drive back to the motel—which is awkward as hell, by the way—Sam breaks the silence by saying, in a grudging voice, “Thanks, Cas, or whoever you are, for saving Dean. We both owe you big-time.”

            “You owe me nothing, Sam,” Cas says quietly from the back. “It’s good to see you.”

            Sam casts Dean a bizarre look sideways, one eye slightly bigger than the other.

            “Yeah,” Sam says, somewhere between belligerent and confused. “Okay.” There’s another pause before he adds, much more acerbically, “I guess I could maybe say the same thing to you if, you know. Dean ever told me who the hell you were.”

            Dean rolls his eyes in exasperation. “Give it a rest, will you?”

            “No,” Sam retorts, mulish as anything. “You’ve been keeping this from me for God knows how long and I’m supposed to just, what, take that? I don’t think so, Dean.”

            “I told you I’d explain later,” Dean says, his voice raising a notch.

            “It’s later so _how_ about you actually explain what the fuck’s—”

            “I’m an angel of the Lord,” Cas says from the backseat. “I time-traveled here from the year 2015.”

            Sam’s jaw works for a second, swiveling to stare at Cas for a long time before he slowly turns back forward and continues staring out the front windshield.

            “Happy now?” Dean snaps.

            Nothing is said for the rest of the drive.

\---

            “Are you an angel like, figuratively?” are the first words out of Sam’s mouth once they reach the motel. Dean can tell Sam’s been dying to talk for the rest of the ride, but hadn’t wanted to give Dean the satisfaction.

            Cas’ mouth presses into an amused line, his eyes still heavy with exhaustion as he glances to Sam with clear fondness. “No. I mean it literally.”

            “I always _knew_ we’d run into an angel one of these days,” Sam says, casting a triumphant look at Dean as they head toward the motel room in a small herd. “There’s just way too many demons for the dichotomy to be nonexistent—”

            Dean rolls his eyes. “He’s not your science experiment, Sam, so do us all a favor and put your nerd boner away.”

            “Ew,” Sam says, then widens his eyes at Dean like he’d committed some huge faux pas by being crass in front of Cas.

            “What?” Dean grumbles. “He doesn’t give a shit.”

            “It’s true,” Cas says with a shrug.

            “I guess you’ve been putting up with Dean for long enough to be used to it, huh?” Sam says with a short, giddy laugh, and Dean glares at him, weirdly annoyed that Sam’s trying to win over Cas with piety or something. He reminds himself, sullenly, that he’s still the clear favorite as he unlocks the motel room door.

            Sam starts to pepper Cas with earnest questions on the way in, enough so that Dean eventually interjects in an incredulous voice, “You really buy the whole angel thing? Like, no questions or anything? You’re just gonna swallow it hook line and sinker?”

            Sam eyes him strangely, looking irritated at being interrupted. “I mean, yeah. It’s not the craziest thing we’ve run into, Dean.”

            “Huh,” Dean says, glancing contemplatively at Cas before looking away. “Took me a while, I guess.”

            “The time-travel thing is a little bit…” Sam wavers one hand back and forth like he’s not completely sold. “But I guess if you’re an angel you probably have some power over the universe’s temporal stream, huh?”

            “Fucking Christ,” Dean says, and goes to take a piss.

            When he comes back, Sam’s in the middle of asking, “So wait, if you’re from 2015, does that mean you know us? In the future, I mean?”

            “Yes,” Cas says, propping himself up with one arm on the bedside desk. He looks like he’s about one breath away from collapsing. “It’s a little complicated, but that’s how I ended up with Dean.”

            “Sam, leave the guy alone. Can’t you see he’s tired?” Dean says, feeling a little bit bad raining on Sam’s excitement but also feeling more than a little bit competitive about the whole thing. Maybe it’s due to an entire lifetime of Sam getting favored by his dad, friends and random relatives, but. Whatever. Cas is his.

            “Oh yeah, sorry,” Sam says, double-taking at Cas like he’s just now noticing that he’s barely keeping upright. “You should go to sleep. We can talk in the morning and stuff.”

            Dean and Cas both keep quiet; Dean doesn’t really have the heart to explain the disappearing act to Sam, and it’s obvious that Cas doesn’t either.

            Sam turns but suddenly hesitates, glancing between the beds, and it’s clear the conundrum of the sleeping arrangements has just occurred to him as he glances furtively to Dean.

            “I can take the floor?” Sam offers, still staring at Dean.

            “No,” Dean says quickly, before Cas can say anything. “I’m on the floor tonight, seriously. Both of you guys get some rest.”

            Sam nods gratefully and claims the other bed, spreading out his limbs like a giant starfish and thunking his head into his pillow. For a few moments, his eyes follow Cas’ every movement, like he doesn’t really believe what he’s seeing, but he crashes fast after that, his breathing fading into deep and heavy pulls.

            “Kid always gets knocked out like a light,” Dean says with a quick shake of his head, and doesn’t mention to Cas that he’s relieved to see Sam actually getting some sleep, thanks to recent events.

            Cas takes up the other bed, leaving one side open for Dean, and Dean tries to act subtle about it—knocks around the room for a few minutes, does a couple of needless nightly rituals, before he just as casually flicks out the light and claims the other side of the bed. It’s not like Cas will be here in the morning, anyway, so the chance of Sam seeing them is low-risk.

            Which it’s not like they’re anything to begin with, Dean reminds himself. There’s nothing for Sam to see.

            “Are you gonna be here tomorrow?” Dean asks anyway after a few moments of silence, ruptured only by Sam’s soft snoring.

            “No,” Cas whispers back. “I don’t think so. I can already feel this…this heat, like the energy’s getting closer.”

            Something sharp and panicked in Dean’s chest clenches and squeezes. “Not like—you don’t mean—”

            “No,” Cas answers in hushed tones. “Not for good, not tonight. I think I’ll know when I’m close to being…” He swallows with audible difficulty. “Expired.”

            “This whole thing’s so stupid,” Dean whispers, furious at his own helplessness. “You don’t deserve this.”

            “Maybe not,” Cas says quietly. “But it’s my fate nonetheless.”

            “Fuck fate,” Dean says, and he thinks he can feel Cas smile.

            “Seriously,” Dean adds, after another moment of hard thinking. “Sam, he’s—he’s got this weird ability, he can remember the people who’ve gotten taken by this thing. He’ll remember you even if I don’t, and then we can get you back.”

            “Dean,” Cas says in a hushed, pained voice.

            “What?” Dean says. “I’m serious, it could work.”

            “I’m not supposed to exist in this time, not with you two, not yet,” Cas says. “When the…when the energy catches up to me, it’ll erase the timeline in which I traveled to meet the two of you. I’ll have never met you or Sam—he can’t remember me if there’s nothing to remember.”

            “Okay, well, if you’re ready to give up and die, fine by me,” Dean says, breaking from a whisper now in his sudden anger. “Sorry for trying.” He flips onto his other side and punches his pillow with his elbow. He doesn’t expect Cas to speak again, and is startled when he hears Cas take a deep breath.

            “I don’t want to die,” Cas says, his voice clear in the dark. “Believe me, I don’t. I don’t want to die.”

            Dean swallows hard, a sting pricking at his eyes.

            “If I think of an alternative, I’ll let you know,” Cas says, his voice dropping again. “But right now, this is the only end that I see. And with this, maybe there’s the chance with my grace that I can stop this from happening to other people. You understand where I’m coming from, right?”

            “Yeah, I understand,” Dean says, shutting his eyes. “Doesn’t mean I’m okay with it.”

            “Dean,” Cas says in a fond voice, and Dean tries not to start when he feels Cas’ warm palm cup his shoulder, then squeeze gently. “You care fiercely about people. It’s a quality of yours I admire. But believe me when I say that I’ll be okay. I won’t know any differently, and neither will you.”

            Dean wants to say he knows that rationally, but he despises the inevitability of it all. He kind of hates that he let himself start caring in the first place, because now this clawing hole exists inside of him, aching in his chest, waiting to consume him.

            Cas leaves his hand on Dean’s shoulder for a long time, long enough for Dean to think he’s maybe nodded off, so just briefly, he lays his hand over the top of Cas’.

            When he wakes up hours later, he twists sideways first thing, but Cas is gone, just as he thought.

            “Fuck,” he mutters, quiet enough not to wake Sam, but a glance up confirms Sam’s already up, pounding away on his laptop.

            “Couldn’t sleep,” Sam says, his red, puffy eyes glued to his laptop screen. There are deep, purplish shadows hanging under them. “Where’d Cas take off to?”

            “Oh,” Dean says. “He, uh, had things to take care of.”

            “Okay,” Sam says, and Dean’s a little more surprised that he’s not getting hounded with suspicion. “I’m gonna call Pastor Jim to see if he’s got any word on where Dad is.”

            “Uh…okay,” Dean says, blinking and watching as Sam picks up his cellphone and punches in a number.

            Dean lies back and stares at the distorted water stain patterns on the ceiling, idly listening as Sam calls around asking after Dad; he can still smell Cas, the scent tangled up in the sheets and the pillowcase, and he’s trying and failing really hard not to think about it. Eventually, once he orders himself to stop feeling pathetic, he gets up and moves around to get blood flowing, gets dressed while Sam talks quiet and fast with people on the phone.

            He feels like he’s being pretty useless, so he paws around in his duffel until he locates his dad’s journal, tucked familiarly in the bottom of the bag. He runs a hand over the leather cover, almost reverently, before he sits on the bed and flips through it, scouring the pages for anything he might’ve missed.

            “No, Dad was in California the last time we heard from him,” Sam says, his voice floating in and out of Dean’s focus. “We just thought…he comes to you for munitions, maybe you’ve seen him in the last few weeks. Just call us if you hear anything. Thanks.”

            “Caleb hasn’t heard from him?” Dean asks when Sam hangs up with a defeated expression.

            “Nope. And neither has Jefferson or Pastor Jim.” He glances over to Dean. “What about the journal? Any leads in there?”

            “No, same as the last time I looked. Nothing I can make out.” Dean makes a face, turning through more pages as he squints to make out his dad’s handwriting. “I love the guy but I swear he writes like friggin’ Yoda.”

            Sam sighs. “You know, maybe we should call the feds. File a missing person’s.”

            “We talked about this,” Dean says, much more firmly. “Dad would be pissed if we put the feds on his tail.”

            “I don’t care anymore,” Sam snaps. Which, if Sam wants to invoke their dad’s wrath, whatever, but Dean would rather not deal with it, given he usually gets to be the punching bag, so to speak.

            Dean’s cellphone goes off and he gets to his feet, ignoring Sam as he keeps talking.

            “After all that happened back in Kansas, I mean.” Sam’s voice cuts out for a minute before he speaks again. “He should’ve been there, Dean. You said so yourself.”

            “I know,” Dean grumbles, not keen to relive the ordeal. “The hell is my cellphone?”

            Five minutes later, Dean’s got a set of anonymous text message coordinates and a destination—an abandoned mental asylum in Rockford, Illinois. After some hesitation and arguing on Sam’s end, they pack up their stuff and hit the road, back on the case again. Halle-freakin’-lujah.

\---

            Cas starts to pop in and out after that—well, Dean _thinks_ he does, at least. Most of the times he catches a glimpse, Cas is gone before he can even blink, like the quick flash of a photograph through a camera lens. He starts to wonder, in the few times he does briefly spot Cas, if he’s hallucinating him or if Cas is circling like a plane unable to find safe landing.

            When he’s working a rawhead case and almost bites it, thanks to a stroke of _seriously_ poor luck and unfortunate electrocution, he wakes up in the hospital to the soft pressure of a warm, dry hand in his, and through the smeary white lights of the hospital fluorescents, he swears he sees Cas by his side, rubbing a thumb over his knuckles, but when he fully comes to, Cas is gone, and Dean can’t be sure if it was just the drugs messing with him. A second time, when he and Sam are working a tulpa case, Dean thinks he catches sight of Cas in the rearview mirror of the car. But he’s always gone before Dean can say a word, before he can even clarify that what he’s seeing is real.

            Another night, sometime in late May, he wakes up feeling too smothered, too warm, and he finds Cas asleep next to him, fully clothed and curled up into Dean’s side. Dean’s breath hitches in his throat, his whole system frozen up in disbelief, and he gently reaches out to touch Cas’ shoulder. Solid warmth seeps through his hand and he knows, then, that the random intervals of Cas-sightings are not only real, but very bad news. It’s a change in ritual that leaves a bad taste in Dean’s mouth, because he knows Cas wasn’t bullshitting him about time winding down. It makes him more than a little sick to his stomach to think about.

            He presses on hunting with Sam and tries not to get distracted by it. Cas really shouldn’t be his priority, after all. He’s got Sam’s freaky psychic visions to worry about, and Dad being MIA, and Meg the demon, and hunting the thing that killed Mom. God knows he doesn’t need Cas to worry about too.

            Sam brings up Cas every once in a while, questioning where he went and if he can provide help on their cases in any way, but Dean never has a straight answer for him. The truth is, he isn’t sure when he’ll see Cas again, or if he will at all. He can’t really explain that to Sam, though, so he keeps his mouth shut and keeps Cas’ face determinedly in mind, clear as a bell, so he won’t forget.


	11. Chapter 11

**Late July - early August, 2006**

            His dad passes away on a Wednesday like it’s no damn thing, like he isn’t the unconquerable John Winchester that Dean’s always thought him to be. Dean doesn’t remember a lot of that day, only remembers thinking that it’s one of the worst days of his life, in the top three with his mom dying and Sam leaving for school. He doesn’t remember anything about the hospital stay, of the car crash—it’s all a white-red haze, mixed up with the sound of Sam sobbing in the hospital bathroom and the feeling like there’s a giant sinkhole in his chest, threatening to swallow him whole.

            He and Sam work a case for distraction’s sake, following the lead of an old voicemail on their dad’s cellphone after they’ve been at Bobby’s for about a week. It’s downright nightmare fodder for Sam, given the whole thing involves clowns, but Dean would gladly take creepy painted fucks over thinking about the misty-eyed expression his dad had on his face the last time they’d talked. Like he knew what exactly was coming for him, like he was saying goodbye.

            Dean’s trying desperately hard not to connect the dots here—the dots being that somehow he’d gotten dealt a miracle hand within the same 24 hours that his dad had bit it out of the blue.

            So he kills a clown or two. And he flirts around with a cute college-aged girl named Jo and boozes a bit. He’s fine.

            The entire way home from the Harvelles’ Roadhouse, Sam is self-flagellating in the shotgun seat, which Dean is so far from ready to handle. He’s not ready for Sam to start repenting to his dad past when it actually matters. He’d said as much on the way to the case, but Sam hadn’t taken it well, so Dean shuts up about it. If that’s how Sam’s gonna grieve, then fine, but he doesn’t want anything to do with that part of it.

            “You have to talk about it sometime, Dean,” Sam says halfway to Bobby’s, breaking the heavy, suffocating silence that’s weighted over the car like a sheet of molasses, and Dean clenches his jaw shut and doesn’t say a damn thing.

            The Impala got ground practically into scrap metal in the crash, so he spends all his spare time fixing her up. She’s coming along pretty nice, if he does say so himself. The entire length of the clown case, he finds his palms itching, desperate for a wrench and to be under her again, opening her up easy and slow. After they get back from the Harvelle case, he immediately goes to the scrapyard, not bothering to say hi to Bobby. He can’t deal with the pity gazes from him, even though Bobby had never been John’s biggest fan.

            Sam comes out to join him at one point, watching him work silently with the air that he’s working up the nerve to say something. Dean doesn’t want to talk, only wants to focus on the car, so he ignores him and pretends Sam isn’t hawkishly following his every move.

            “You were right,” Sam eventually says.

            “About what?” Dean says, sidestepping Sam to circle around to the back of the car.

            “About me and Dad,” Sam says, his voice thick. He hesitates before he continues. “I’m sorry that the last time I was with him I tried to pick a fight. I’m sorry that I spent most of my life angry at him—I mean, for all I know, he died thinking that I hate him. So, you’re right. What I’m doing now, it’s…it’s too little. It’s too late.”

            Sam’s lip gives a treacherous wobble and just like that, Dean’s throat closes up nice and tight, blocked hard enough to choke his breath. He feels he’s one toe’s edge from the cliff of losing it, and he wants Sam to shut up, but he keeps going.

            “I miss him, man,” Sam says, his voice lower. “And I feel guilty as hell. And I’m not all right. Not at all.” He takes a deep breath, glances to the ground before he continues. “But neither are you. That much I know.”

            Dean keeps his shoulders very still, not responding.

            Sam seems to wait for a reply for a moment, but Dean doesn’t give one.

            “I’ll let you get back to work,” Sam says finally, quietly, and he turns to head inside, his shoes scuffling against the gravel with soft crunches. Dean stares after him and he feels the sinkhole open up again in the pits of his chest, sucking in his lungs. He can’t breathe.

            For just a moment, he lets himself go, lets himself careen over the cliff’s edge and free-fall—he picks up the nearest crowbar and whirls, smashing a nearby car’s window straight through with a satisfying shatter of glass. His whole vision is red-hot, a sob threatening to bubble up in his throat, and he turns toward the Impala blindly, raising the bar to slam it into the hood of the trunk.

            Before he can bring the crowbar down, he feels two strong hands, one clapping on to his shoulder, the other snapping out to catch the trajectory of the crowbar effortlessly; Dean whips around, ready to fight, but he sees Cas standing there with his dumb disheveled hair and his dumb sad sympathetic face and just crumbles. He drops the crowbar with a clang.

            “It’s okay,” Cas says, almost too soft to hear, and before he knows it Dean’s grabbed him, suddenly desperate for human touch, and Cas lets him take it, holds onto Dean as he chokes out muffled sobs into his shoulder. He can feel, distantly, the path of Cas’ hands stroking up and down his shoulders, and he thinks Cas shushes him into his hair once or twice, but for the most part, he lets himself be clung to and holds Dean steady.

\--

            Once Dean recovers from the humiliating crying episode, he drives the two of them to the nearest bar; Cas seems to get that Dean doesn’t want to talk and stays quiet the whole way there. Dean walks right in, sits Cas down at the nearest booth and orders himself a tall glass of whiskey. He promptly buries his head in his hands, his skull still throbbing from the breakdown.

            “Sorry,” Dean mutters, sniffling, and he senses that Cas is still staring at him and his skin crawls under the scrutiny. He really, really hates crying in front of people.

            Cas bumps his shoe gently with Dean’s under the table. “It’s okay. You’ve suffered a terrible loss. You have the full right to your grief.”

            The waitress sets the glass down and heads off. Dean reaches out and takes a huge swig.

            “So you knew about this then, eh?” Dean says with a smack of his lips as he sets down his drink. He looks at Cas evenly in the eye, and Cas, just as steady, stares back. Dean nods to himself in confirmation. “You knew my dad was gonna bite it and you didn’t say anything.”

            “What could I say, Dean?” Cas says quietly. “Telling you would have been a disaster.”

            Rationally, deep down, Dean knows Cas’ logic is sound, but for just a second, he wants someone to blame that isn’t himself.

            “You could’ve told me and I could’ve stopped it,” Dean says harshly, leaning forward over the table. “I could’ve kept us from getting on that highway, or—or I could’ve done _something,_ I don’t know. You could’ve told me.”

            Cas rubs one eye wearily with his knuckle. “There’s nothing I could’ve said to alter the future, Dean, but if you prefer to have someone to blame—”

            “No.” Dean shuts his eyes, still feeling his temples pulsing. “It’s my own damn fault. It’s not fair to—I just—I need to accept that—”

            “It’s not your fault,” Cas says firmly. “Your father is responsible for his own decisions.”

            “I still don’t know exactly what went down,” Dean says, keeping his eyes closed. “But I know it sure as hell was something, some sort of trade-off that involved bringing me back. It’s way too much of a coincidence.”

            Cas remains quiet, not saying anything.

            “Was it you?” Dean asks, cracking his eyes open.

            Cas blinks, looking genuinely startled. “What?”

            “The doc, he…” Dean swallows uncomfortably and runs the pad of his thumb along the rim of the whiskey glass. “He said me surviving, it was like some kind of miracle. Like I had an angel looking out for me. Did you have anything to do with…me coming back?”

            Cas narrows his eyes thoughtfully. “No, it wasn’t me, although I would’ve done all in my power to stop what happened to you.”

            “I can’t remember a thing,” Dean says, shaking his head. “I remember the brights of the truck, the feeling of the car being hit, and then—” He snaps his fingers. “Lights out. All I remember is waking up in the hospital bed.”

            “Whatever it was,” Cas says, his tone dark, “I have a feeling it was something far more sinister than an angel, or at least something as equally powerful.”

            “Shit,” Dean mutters. “I was hoping it’d be you. That’d make this whole thing a lot…” He swallows with difficulty. “Easier.”

            “I’m sorry for your loss, Dean,” Cas says gently. He slides his hands across the table, almost like he’s gonna take Dean’s hands in his, then seems to think better of it last second. He pulls his hands back. “I know how much you loved your father. It must be very difficult for both you and Sam.”

            Dean gives one short nod and looks away, hating the fact that his cheeks still feel hot from crying, his eyes puffy and tired. “I’ll be fine.”

            “Dean.”

            “Seriously, Cas, I’ll be fine.” He takes another long drink of whiskey to prove his point, which Cas doesn’t seem to judge but he eyes the glass sadly when Dean sets it down anyway.

            “So,” Dean says, desperate for a subject change. The last thing he wants to think about right now is his dad. “How long you stickin’ around?”

            “I’m not sure,” Cas says quietly, propping his hands on the tabletop. “I’ve been trying to land for sometime, but to no avail, unfortunately. It’s becoming more and more difficult to outrun this.”

            Dean swallows hard. He doesn’t really want to talk about this either, now that he thinks about it. “Yeah, I thought I noticed that,” he says. “I mean, I thought I was seeing you. Just flashes here and there. Thought I was going crazy.”

            “They were really me,” Cas confirms. “And Sam’s case? Any updates?”

            Dean shakes his head. “Nope. Like I said before, the case has been cold for a while now. People could be vanishing and we wouldn’t know the difference.”

            Dean’s cellphone, set off to the side of the table, suddenly goes off, the lit screen reading Bobby’s name. Dean just looks at it out of the corner of his eye, keeping his hands still.

            “You should get that,” Cas says quietly.

            Dean sighs, hesitating another moment, and then he grabs the call before it can go to voicemail. “Yeah?”

            “Where the hell are you?” Bobby’s voice is sharp, but Dean can hear the concern there clear as day. “Sam and I are worried sick.”

            “Just took Cas out for a little mourning drink,” Dean says as flippantly as he can, even though his voice is still rough and parched from crying. He meets Cas’ gaze and holds it, unwavering. “I’m fine.”

            “You’re not really in the state to be out and drinking on your own, Dean,” Bobby says, and Dean bites back the mean words he wants to say, that Bobby’s not his damn father and should stop trying to be. “Come home.”

            “I said I’m fine,” Dean says.

            “Well, I want to see you before I leave, so get your ass back—”

            “Leave?” Dean interrupts, frowning. He can feel Cas still watching him. “Leave where?”

            “Ahh, Rufus gave me a call and said there’s a nest of vamps that needs to be cleared out in Red Lodge, Montana. I’ve got a million and one things to do, so I don’t really got the time, but—”

            “Sam and I’ll take it,” Dean says without thinking, instantly feeling his shoulders perking up. The thought of hunting right now, especially beheading things, is suddenly viscerally appealing.

            There’s a hesitation on the other line.

            “Not sure if that’s a good idea,” Bobby says.

            “Why the hell not?”

            “You know damn well why not. I don’t want you out there killin’ things on some suicide mission.”

            “Sam and I just ganked a psycho clown, in case you didn’t notice,” Dean says irritably. “Hey, how’s this—you give me this case, I’ll haul my ass to your place right now.”

            “You’re not really in the place to be negotiating, Dean,” Bobby snaps.

            “Take it or leave it.”

            There’s another furious silence. Bobby growls out a low string of profanities before his voice becomes coherent again. “Goddammit. Be here in 15 or I’m leaving to kill the things myself.”

            Dean grins, and it feels like it’s cracking his face in half. Cas’ expression goes from neutral to concerned in half a second, which tells Dean it’s not a pretty look on him. “Fan-frigging-tastic. See you then.”

            “Bobby may be right,” Cas says the second Dean hangs up. “I’m not sure you’re suited to be hunting right now.”

            Dean frowns, ruffled. “Screw you, Cas. I told you I’m fine.”

            “I appreciate your conviction in my stupidity,” Cas says testily, his shoulders tightening. “But unfortunately for you, I wasn’t born yesterday.”

            “Yeah, I get it, you’re a million. The age card’s getting a little old, Cas.”

            Cas deadpans a face at the pun.

            “Seriously, lay off,” Dean says. “No offense, but I know what’s best for me, not you, and hunting is the thing that’ll make all this feel a little more normal.”

            “Dean,” Cas says, his jaw taut.

            “Don’t,” Dean says, standing up from the table, and in that moment, looking at Cas, he feels cruel and hard and unlovable and he loves it. He doesn’t want Cas’ compassion or his protection. He doesn’t deserve it so he doesn’t want it, doesn’t want the warm soft things that only seem to hurt now.

            He starts for the door, throwing down a 10 to pay for his drink, but Cas’ hand, gently ensnaring his wrist, stops him.

            “Be careful,” Cas says, looking up at him, his eyes like dark water, smooth and unfathomable.

            Dean tugs his wrist away and heads for the door of the bar, not looking back.

\---

Sam and Dean keep busy. Understatement. There’s really not much else _to_ do other than hunt, not in the aftermath of their dad dying the way he did. Dean’s walking around these days with an armed bomb in his head, primed any second to go off—the promise to his dad that he’d kill Sam, if it came down to it, is a living, sinister thing in his brain. He’s dying to tell Sam, just so he doesn’t have to live with it festering in him like an open infected wound, but he knows what it would do to him so he keeps his mouth shut.

            He knows it’s not right to think it, but he thinks, more often than not, that it’s really not fucking fair. It’s not fair that his dad had pinned whatever this is on him, then went off and killed himself to seal it the deal—it’s not Dean’s damn job to put Sam down like a sick dog. Not that it’s anyone else’s, either; Dean would’ve come to blows with his dad if he ever made even the smallest move on Sam, no question.

            Dean finds himself wishing more often or not that Cas was with him during all of this, the demon virus and the hellhounds and the creepy dolls, just to be a steady rock throughout this whole thing. There’s something about his presence that’s comforting, grounding, like he always knows the exact right thing to do or say that’ll make a situation more manageable. The more months that crawl by, the more shitty Dean starts to feel about their last conversation—yeah, it hadn’t really been Cas’ place to step in and tell him what to do, but he’d just been trying to help. Dean had owed him a little more credit than that, but it’s not like he can do a damn thing to apologize, at least not right now with Cas gone.

            Every once in a while, like old times, Dean thinks he’ll see a flash of Cas out of the corner of his eye. Once, when he and Sam are working an alleged angel case in Providence, Rhode Island (which turns out to _not_ be an angel case, of frigging course), Dean prays for help, hoping it’ll draw Cas to him like a homing pigeon or something. Naturally, it doesn’t work, Dean gets to feel like a gullible idiot, and he and Sam end up carrying on the case as usual, a grimy salt-and-burn of some schmuck at the end just like all the rest. Nothing holy, nothing righteous, nothing _angelic._

            Dean tries to keep Cas out of mind. He does. But as the trail to tracking down Yellow Eyes gets hotter and hotter, the more he wishes he had him as a wall to put his back against.


	12. Chapter 12

**May 4, 2007**

            Sam’s taken off for the night, which leaves Dean to his own devices—said devices being drinking alone in the motel room and watching reruns of _The Price is Right_ while trying not to fucking lose it. Sam hadn’t really said why he’d run off—said he just needed to clear his head and take a walk, but it’s already been two hours and it’s not like Dean’s a dumbass. Sam hasn’t looked him in the eyes since they’d taken out Azazel; not since he’d found out Dean’s a dead man walking.

            Dean’s not sure if Sam’s more guilty or pissed about what had gone down, but Dean can’t be forced to feel bad about it. He’d done what he had to; he’d done what his dad would do, what his dad had _done._

            Regardless, even if he would never admit it to Sam, he’s got this huge pit in his stomach that seems to bottom out with every passing minute. He tells himself he doesn’t care about hell, about dying, but every time he says that to himself, the pit takes deeper root in his gut, threatening to swallow him whole. It feels like his heart is racing all the time now, like it’s sprinting toward its last beat, its final numbered beat.

            He bites hard on his lip, so hard that he nearly draws blood, so hard that tears prick at his eyes. He focuses on the vibrant colors of the TV screen and ignores the way the images start to blur in bright streaks.

            This is what his dad would’ve wanted. This is what his dad _told_ him to do—it’d been his fucking dying wish, right? So he’s not sure why he’s allowing Sam to make him feel like a piece of shit over it.

            _Selfish,_ a quiet mental voice singsongs to him. _You’re selfish._

Whatever. Dean thinks he’s allowed to be selfish about this, about wanting Sam _alive_. It’s not like his soul’s worth that much anyway, comparatively speaking.

            He sucks in a deep, shaky breath, trying to ignore the hiccup in his chest that’s putting him about two seconds away from a full-on crying breakdown.

            He raises both heels of his palms to his eyes and scrubs furiously, hard enough to make colors swim behind his eyes. He’s not gonna cry. Not over this. He’d made his damn bed to lie in. He doesn’t need saving, not from Sam or anyone else.

            There’s a sudden breeze in the room, followed by a feeling like all the air’s gotten tighter around him, and Dean pokes his head up, sure that he’d left a window cracked or that he’s imagining it. He blinks, and blinks again—Cas is standing in front of the TV, gazing at him with his arms dangling by his sides. He’s still in Dean’s rumpled plaid shirt and jeans, looking not a minute changed from when Dean had last seen him nine months ago.

            “Cas,” Dean says, trying to keep his voice upbeat at the sight of him, but the rough crack in his voice and his red-rimmed eyes probably give him straight away.

            Cas’ whole body seems to deflate at that, his expression wilting into something deeply sad. “Oh, Dean.”

            Dean bites his lower lip again and nods once, trying to get a grip on himself before he speaks again. It’s not his damn fault Cas always seems to show up nowadays while he’s mid-breakdown.

            “Is it true?” he asks in a voice he tries to control, but it wavers treacherously anyway. “Am…am I going to hell, Cas?”

            Cas crosses over to him in lieu of a reply, taking up a seat on the bed right beside him, and Dean distantly remembers that the last time they’d been together, they’d gotten in a fight of some kind. It all seems completely insignificant now.

            “Am I going to hell?” Dean asks again, after Cas doesn’t answer for several moments. “You can tell it to me straight.”

            “I,” Cas says in a low voice, his words parsed and deliberate, “carried you from that place, the moment that I found you. I promise you, Dean, you won’t be there long. I’ll come for you.”

            The pieces come together with an ugly click in his head, and Dean recoils.

            “We met in _hell_?” he whispers, hearing the revulsion in his voice.

            Cas just looks at him with those dark sad eyes, expression unreadable, before he says, “In another time, yes. But Dean, listen to me.” He steels a cool hand on top of Dean’s, and Dean realizes the shake he’s feeling is himself, bodily shivering from head to toe. “Even when…even when I’m no longer here, someone is coming for you. When I’m gone, even if it’s on a deep, subconscious level, I beg of you to remember that.”

            “Why?” Dean whispers, searching Cas’ face for answers. He’s still shaking, and he hates that he can’t stop. “Why did you save me?”

            “Because God commanded it,” Cas says, with a small, humorless quirk of his mouth. His eyes haven’t left Dean’s for even a second.

            “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

            Cas doesn’t say a word to that, just shifts back so that his shoulders are aligned with the headboard, and he reaches out to pull Dean in against him. Dean lets himself be tugged in, draping a loose arm around Cas’ waist as he tries to take deep, shuddering breaths. He can distantly feel Cas’ hand stroking through his hair to calm him down, the pad of a thumb rubbing behind his ear, and he stares straight ahead at the motel wall and hates himself for the tears he can feel collecting on his lower eyelids.

            “Dunno why I’m freaking out,” Dean says with a harsh, self-deprecating laugh and a slight sniffle after a few more moments of silence. “I knew damn well what I was getting myself into when I bargained for Sam. And I wouldn’t take it back. But…” He can’t bring himself to finish.

            “But you don’t deserve this,” Cas finishes softly. “I think you know that, Dean.”

            “Remember when I thought I was going to get out?” Dean asks, closing his eyes and digging his nose into Cas’ stomach. His next words are muffled. “I even asked you if I was. Fucking stupid.”

            “I wish I could’ve given you a different answer,” Cas says, and Dean keeps his eyes shut, feeling the slow flux of Cas’ breath bobbing under his face. “I would’ve done anything to give you a different answer.”

            Dean ducks his head further into Cas’ stomach so all he can see is darkness, and he pretends for a moment that this is all there is. Cas, Cas and him.

            “How is it you always manage to show up when I’m in the middle of losing it?” Dean asks to Cas’ midsection. “It’s starting to ruin my rep.”

            “I have a theory,” Cas says, sounding thoughtful.

            “You and your dumb theories.”

            “I think I might be pulled to the times when you need me the most,” Cas says, and Dean shuts right up at that.

            He thinks about it for another minute, letting the validity of it ring through him, before he mutters, “I was right, that is a dumb theory,” and Cas chuckles, pressing a quick kiss to the crown of his head.

            It occurs to Dean that it’s cuddling, what he and Cas are doing—it’s essentially cuddling, and Sam could come back and walk in on them literally at any time, but he’s too tired to put up walls about it tonight. He could push himself away and pretend he doesn’t want this, and then feel better about it later, better about the fact that he’d denied himself having this, but for right now, he’s tired and miserable and this is what he wants. Cas is what he wants.

            “What’s it like?” Dean asks after a few more moments of silence pass. He feels Cas’ hand still. “Hell, I mean? Is it as bad as everyone makes it sound?”

            Cas doesn’t say anything, and his hand doesn’t pick up its motion again.

            “Or is it like, you know,” Dean says, then swallows, unnerved by Cas’ silence. “An exaggeration?”

            “I can’t give anything away,” Cas murmurs, which sounds a lot like a cop-out. “I can’t alter future events more than I already have.”

            Dean feels it again, the pit gaping open in his stomach. It feels like tight hands are wrapped in claws around his heart, squeezing so tight it hurts, and his breath hitches.

            “God, I’m scared,” he says before he means to say it—he doesn’t mean to say anything, but the words seem to spill right out of him.

            Cas’ hands flit to his shoulders and tighten there.

            “It’ll be hard,” Cas says. “The hardest thing you’ve ever been through. But you’ll see the other side of it, Dean. You’re stronger than hell.”

            “I don’t think I am,” Dean says, his voice thick. “I think you’re telling me what I need to hear.”

            Cas’ hands start to move in slow circles on Dean’s back, and he doesn’t say anything to confirm or deny it.

            “Can you hear prayers in hell?” Dean asks. Cas’ hands pause again. “Like if I pray, if I talk to you, will you hear it?”

            “I won’t be here by then,” Cas says, and the reminder is gentle but Dean hates it anyway. “But if you do remember me, somewhere, I’ll hear you. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that the universe at its worst can do nothing to keep me from you.”

            Cas has this habit of throwing out huge words, words that have an entire world of meaning inside them. He says them so casually, the way you’d reel out any fact of truth. Like they can be wholly believed.

            “I’ll remember,” Dean whispers, still staring straight ahead, and Cas doesn’t say a thing to that.

\---

            Weeks seem to slip by faster now. Dean dreams of hellfire. And Cas.

            He can’t be sure if the latter is real or not—Cas never says anything in his dreams, just stares at them with sad ocean-blue eyes and his hands hanging by his sides.

            “What?” Dean always asks him, sometimes grabbing him by the shoulders to rattle him. “ _What_ , Cas?”

            Whenever Cas opens his mouth to reply, saltwater bubbles up on his lips and spills out of him, and keeps spilling until the room’s flooded and Dean wakes up gasping for breath, feeling like his lungs are collapsing.

            Sam asks about Cas every so often, but it’s not really at the forefront of his priorities. Sam’s spending every manic waking moment devoted to finding a way to break Dean’s deal. Dean’s spending just as many moments trying to keep his head from going under.

            Every once in a while, Bela’s smug taunt echoes in his head, causing him to clench the wheel tighter, to fist the sheets harder— _“We’re all going to hell, Dean. Might as well enjoy the ride.”_

            Bela’s her own infuriating package of damaged goods intent on fucking the Winchesters over, but true to her word, borrowed minutes seem to wind down faster than normal ones. Dean blinks and it’s June, it’s July, it’s August, and he’s trying to keep his head from going under the closer his death-date gets. He puts on a brave face for Sam, sleeps around, drinks a lot, hallucinates Cas, and hunts. It’s really the only things he _can_ do. No way in fuck he’s risking getting the deal flipped where it’s Sam’s corpse instead of his. No way in fuck.

            He knows Sam won’t get it, that he _can’t_ really get it, so he keeps his trap shut and goes along with Sam’s quest. He pretends there’s a way out because when Sam believes it, it’s easy for him to believe it.

            One night in October, he and Sam get in a big brawl about the hell thing—Dean loses his patience with lying to himself and tells Sam there’s no way out, this is the way it is, and Sam almost blows a gasket and has to walk it off. The slam of the motel door rings loud in Dean’s ears, resonating in his brain as he packs up his duffel, folding the same pair of boxers sightlessly over and over again.

            Sam doesn’t know what the fuck is at stake, he thinks as he scoops up the rest of his dirty clothes and starts to methodically fold them, sleeve over sleeve, pant-legs lined symmetrically. Maybe, once he has a wife and kids of his own, he’ll even thank Dean one day.

            _He’ll move on without me_ , Dean thinks, feeling a sharp lump in his throat. That’s what he’d bargained for, after all.

            Suddenly, as Dean’s dumping the last of his socks into his bag, it gets hard to breathe, like all the oxygen in the room’s been suctioned out. Dean wheezes in surprise, a hand flying to his throat, but before he can turn, there’s a loud crash directly behind him.

            He whirls, catching his breath, and sees Cas stumbling to right himself from where he’d crashed into the TV set. The TV is on the floor in pieces, but Dean can’t bring himself to care—he’s way more distracted by the dazed, panicked look in Cas’ eyes, the grim angle of his mouth. It steals the greeting right from his lips.

            “Cas?” Dean asks, feeling an unpleasant swoop in his gut that quickly tightens when Cas meets his gaze. “What’s going on?”

            “It’s over,” Cas says through hitched, ragged breaths, and Dean notices it then, the patches of gold light flickering on him, like fireflies are trapped under his skin. “Dean, it’s over.”

            “No,” Dean whispers—he means to say it loud, strong and clear, but his voice completely fails him. He all but stumbles toward Cas to grab onto him and pull him upright, like that’ll ground him here. “No, listen to me—you’re not going anywhere, you son of a bitch. Got it?”

            “Dean,” Cas says, shaking off his grasp and backing up toward the motel door. “You can’t—don’t touch me, I don’t want anything to—”

            “No, _fuck_ that!” Dean’s yelling now, and he reaches out to steel a hand to Cas’ arm. His fingers tighten and lock in the sleeve of Cas’ shirt. He hates how broken his next words sound, giving him right away. “You—you can’t leave me.”

            Dean expects Cas to yank away with another protest about protecting him, but Cas surprises him. He hooks a hand under Dean’s jaw to reel him in, so fast that Dean can’t even blink, and kisses him.

            For a second, the whole world seems to swing into standstill—Dean’s eyes are still frozen open in surprise, the shape of Cas’ mouth on his, pressure warm and hard—he barely even has the moment to process _Cas, Cas is kissing me_ before it’s over just as fast, Cas jerking back like he’d been shocked. Dean stares at him, totally poleaxed.

            “I’m sorry,” Cas says in a shaking voice, his eyes dropping to Dean’s lips dazedly before meeting his eyes again. “Dean, I’m sorry—”

            Before he’s even made his mind up, Dean’s body’s decided for him; he pulls Cas in by the collar of his stupid borrowed shirt and kisses him right on the mouth. Cas makes this startled whimpering sound, jolting back in surprise at the contact before their mouths connect again, hard enough to feel teeth. This close, Dean can feel, can taste everything—the light rasp of Cas’ stubble, the mountain-air smell off his skin, the hot wet slide of Cas’ mouth moving with his—because Cas is kissing back now, any inhibitions he’d first had apparently tossed out the proverbial window. He’s kissing Dean like a man in the desert tasting rain for the first time, and _God,_ Dean thinks dizzily as Cas’ tongue flicks against the seam of his lower lip, this is everything, everything he didn’t know he’d been waiting for.

            On an impulse he walks them back, suddenly desperate for a solid surface, and if Cas gets more or less slammed into the nearest wall, he doesn’t protest other than a soft, surprised hiccup of breath at the impact. Cas’ hands, his wide gentle palms are cupping either side of Dean’s jaw now, securing him so that he can’t move away, even if he fucking wanted to. Dean isn’t sure what his hands are doing, exploring Cas of their own volition; one’s curled behind Cas’ ear, knuckles knotting in the sweat-damp curls there, the other uselessly aligned with Cas’ jawline.

            He breaks away after a moment for a gasp of air, because apparently Cas doesn’t have to, but he’s drawn back into Cas like he’s being pulled by a riptide underwater. He’s got a mouth on Cas’ neck before he’s even finished taking a breath, but Cas is sucking a hickey or seven under his jaw so he figures it’ll fly.

            He can distantly feel Cas’ leg hooked around his hip, the strong line of his thigh hot against the curve of his waist, and it occurs to Dean wildly, dizzyingly, that Cas _wants_ this. All this time, waking up hard and hot with shame and thinking about Cas’ head between his thighs, he thought it’d been him, him wanting it, him pushing it, but there’s nothing passive about this Cas—nothing martyred. Cas’ leg is wrapped around Dean like a steel bear-trap, dragging their hips into these maddening circles of friction, and despite the fact that Dean’s grinding against the curve of Cas’ hipbone like a horny teenager, Cas seems like he’s just as turned on, if the rock-hard bulge in his jeans is any indication.

            Dean suddenly remembers, halfway through mapping out the hollow behind Cas’ ear with his mouth, that Cas is supposed to be a big pile of nothing right now, and he pulls away fast, so fast that Cas also snaps back with this worried, anticipating look, like he’s afraid he’s gonna get punched or something.

            Dean wants to ask a question, something relevant to Cas’ impending demise, but he shuts up when Cas runs a thumb along the curve of Dean’s cheekbone, the pad of it coming to rest, wonderingly, on the corner of Dean’s bottom lip. Dean’s way too dizzy, way too breathless to look anywhere but Cas’ eyes. He’s completely hooked on the half-lidded, dazed look there, dark and heavy as a solar eclipse, focused on him.

            “I’m sorry,” Cas murmurs, his eyes flickering back down to Dean’s mouth. Dean can barely breathe. “I wanted to know what that felt like.”

            “You’re still here,” Dean says, his voice barely a rasp. There are still patches of gold shifting under Cas’ skin, like sunlight glancing off water. “Does that mean—does that mean you’ll—”

            Cas brings both hands up to cradle Dean’s face, his thumbs resting in the hollows under his cheekbones. Dean’s lips get stuck on the shape of the next word he was gonna say, which he’s forgotten now, and he swallows at Cas’ touch, his throat dry.

            Cas looks like he’s debating on kissing him again, his mouth red and slick and his hair disheveled, and Dean says the only damn thing he can think of, looking at him.

            “Please,” he whispers, and Cas obliges, leaning forward without hesitation to slot their mouths together. It’s twice as gentle as before, the harsh urgency receding, and Dean keeps his eyes closed so he can feel every sensation, rooting the details in his brain so he can’t forget—Cas’ smell, his mouth, his warmth, his hands.

            Through the film of his closed eyes, he can see the patches of golden light strengthening, flickering in and out in quick patterns, and suddenly frantic, he deepens the kiss, digging his fingers into Cas’ shoulder-blades.

            There’s a rush of air, a shift in pressure, and when he opens his eyes, Cas is gone.


	13. Chapter 13

            Dean goes a little crazy over the next week. More crazy than usual, that is. Sam keeps grudgingly asking what’s up, clearly not all that willing to talk to him after the hell spat, but Dean’s behavior must be weird enough to warrant some concerned interrogation. Of course, Dean can’t tell him, he can’t really explain, so he keeps pacing motel room floors and twitching at the wheel of the Impala, keeping every detail of Cas’ face and voice seared into his brain.

            He hasn’t forgotten, not any of it—he remembers every detail of the kiss, which is another reason why he’s going half-insane. He can’t stop playing the damn thing on repeat, which is like the worst kind of self-inflicted blue-balling, but whatever. He remembers the night Cas crashed into his car and he remembers the silver cast of his face tilted up toward the stars on the mountaintop. He remembers all of it, which either means Cas had been wrong about the time vortex thing or that he’s still out there somewhere.

            He gets his answer in the middle of the night about six days later. Sam’s out for the night, leaving the bed beside him empty, and Dean’s still tossing and turning, too anxious to sleep between hell and Cas.

            The air in the room shifts in a familiar, squeezing sensation, and Dean immediately scrambles up in bed, almost banging his face on the headboard.

            Cas is standing in the corner of the room, his arms crossed as he leans one shoulder into the wall, his eyes barely visible in the dark dripping shadows of the room.

            “You’re…” Dean starts to say, but his mouth dries out. He swallows, waiting for Cas to explain.

            “Time’s up,” Cas says softly. “By tomorrow morning, I’ll—I’ll be gone.”

            Dean lets that hurt, lets himself feel like he’s gotten kicked squarely in the gut, and he takes a deep, pained breath. Without a word, he pulls back the other side of the covers in invitation.

            Cas goes without even the indication of a protest, toeing off his shoes and curling up next to Dean.

            For several minutes, neither of them says anything, blinking to parse each other out in the dark, sharing soft, barely audible breaths.

            “Your last night on earth, huh?” Dean says, like voicing the words will get rid of them from his chest.

            “My _last_ last night on earth,” Cas corrects with a sad, humorless smile. “I’ve had quite a few of them.”

            There’s something about the way Cas is looking at him, something about the slant of his eyes, the somber curve of his mouth, that prompts Dean to ask something pretty stupid and pretty unexpected.

            “Cas,” he says, then clears his throat quietly. “Can I ask you something?”

            “Of course,” Cas says, keeping his eyes trained steadily on him. Like maybe he knows what’s coming.

            Dean’s next words drop to a whisper, sudden fear of the answer sapping the volume straight from his voice. “Are you in love with me? In the future?”

            Cas’ throat works for a moment around a swallow, before he answers, just as softly, “Yes.”

            Dean takes a second to collect himself. He knots his fingers in the sheets before he chalks up the nerve for his next question. “Are you in love with me now?”

            Cas’ eyes drift shut, so weary. His next words are as defeated as Dean’s ever heard him. “Always, Dean.”

            It’s the next question Dean’s the most scared of, but it’s his last chance to ask it, so he does. “Am I in love with you too? In the future?”

            “I don’t know,” Cas confesses in a whisper, keeping his eyes shut, maybe afraid to look Dean in the face. “It’s…hard to know. I’ve hurt you badly, so I don’t know if that’s—”

            “I’ll tell you what I think,” Dean says, prompting Cas to open his eyes. “I think, knowing me, I am. I think I fall hard and fast for you and that I…that I don’t look back.”

            Cas tilts his head downward so his nose is buried in the pillow, his eyebrows scrunched in pain. Dean waits, heart galloping like a racehorse, for Cas to speak.

            “I want to believe that more than anything,” Cas says, keeping his eyes squeezed shut. “Because I’m selfish. But I don’t know if I can.”

            “Well,” Dean says, his stubborn need to make Cas believe him overriding any of the nervous jitters jumping around in his stomach. “I’m telling you how I feel now, and I know me better than anyone else. So I think the Dean you know has a giant stick up his ass but wants you so bad that…” Dean trails off, his words truncated by Cas suddenly opening his eyes and staring back at him, expressionless.

            “It doesn’t matter,” Cas says, moving his head from the pillow so his words can be clearly heard. “It doesn’t matter either way, how I feel, how you feel. None of it will have ever happened, come tomorrow. This, all of this, will—”

            Dean doesn’t want to hear the rest of that sentence, so he does the best thing to shut Cas up and kisses him. It works; Cas’ sentence derails instantly, his hand flitting up to touch Dean’s face as his mouth parts, gently catching Dean’s lower lip between his.

            Dean pulls back and wiggles down deeper into the mattress, tangling their feet together. “I don’t care about the universe,” Dean informs him. “I’m telling you how I feel right now. That’s all that matters.”

            “Okay,” Cas breathes out, staring at him wide-eyed, and Dean can’t help but think, as he pulls him back in, that Cas is pretty damn easy.

            They don’t do anything but make out for a long time, maybe with the implicit understanding that talking will make things worse. It’s almost hypnotic, the cadence of their mouths gliding together in a soft push-pull, and at some point, he gets shifted by Cas’ hands so he’s laid out flat on top of Cas like he weighs nothing—Cas’ fingers are drifting in these soft, dancing patterns on his hips, sliding along the elastic waistband of his pants. Dean’s dick is achingly hard in his sweats, which he’s sure Cas can feel jabbing like a piece of plywood against his thigh, but if Cas isn’t gonna push for anything tonight, then that’s fine by—

            Cas’ fingers slip down into the back waistband of Dean’s sweatpants, a sudden change of pace that quickly obliterates the “it’s okay if we don’t bone” resolve that Dean had been slowly building up.

            Dean wants Cas naked yesterday, but that’s not really news to him—he’s not really sure what _Cas_ wants though, so he keeps it agonizingly slow, rocking his hips in smooth motions against Cas’ toned thigh, and Cas’ hands slip back into his waistband, lightly squeezing the shape of his ass and, well. Shit. Dean’s on board.

            Dean pulls back to focus on unbuttoning the front of Cas’ shirt, but his stupid hands are shaking, so his fingers keep missing the slots of the buttons. Cas’ fingers join his a moment later, helping him along, and Dean breathes out a shaky, embarrassed laugh.

            “I swear I’m good at this,” he says in a miserable attempt at protecting his pride, and Cas chuckles low and warm in his throat and says, “Dean, I know.”

            He’s not sure why he’s acting like a blushing bride around Cas in bed—it’s just sex, for crying out loud. He’s slept with lots of girls and even a few guys, but it’s never been like…this. It’s never been as big as this, something that seems to exist outside of Dean’s body in tune with Cas.

            Cas’ shirt winds up on the floor next to the bed and Dean takes a second to run his hands over the tan, exposed skin of his torso, trailing his thumbs curiously over Cas’ nipples, which are pebbled and hard now under Dean’s touch. His tattoos, the pentagram that Dean’s got copied on his own pec and the Enochian sigil on his hipbone, stand out starkly against the smooth skin. Which okay, Dean’s seen Cas naked, brief as it was, but he hasn’t…

            Cas is watching him with the most dazed, awed expression, like it’s _him_ that’s getting his mind blown, and like that’s not fucking wild for Dean. This creature, this thing that aligned the stars, is looking at him like he hung the fucking moon. He can’t stop shaking.

            “You sure you want to…?” Dean says on a shaky exhalation, and Cas says, resolute as a bible verse, “Yes.”

            “Alright,” Dean says, “alright,” and Cas’ hands meet his at the hem of his own shirt, helping to heft it over his head and toss it off the bed. Dean leans forward, hanging for a moment over Cas, letting their noses touch, before Cas gets impatient and surges up to kiss him again, which is kinda funny, all things considered. Cas, ever so staunch and withstanding, is a glutton for instant gratification in the sack. Who would’ve thought.

            “Slow down,” Dean murmurs through the kiss after a few heated moments, running a soothing hand down Cas’ side. “Slow down.”

            “We don’t have time,” Cas says, his voice breathless, biting a kiss into Dean’s bottom lip.

            “We’ve got all the time in the world,” Dean says, which they both know is a pretty fucking terrible lie, but he thinks they might both believe it, just for a while.

            Dean’s dick is practically poking out of his sweatpants now, demanding attention, so he takes the plunge, sitting up straighter in Cas’ lap to shimmy the sweatpants off his legs. Cas follows suit, unbuttoning his jeans to roll them off, and they have a moment of what Dean considers to be a brief and very wary game of gay chicken, eyeing each other’s boners through their boxers to see who’ll crack first.

            Cas wins by cheating, because the next thing Dean knows, Cas’ thumbs are in the waistband of his boxers and pulling them down. At the same moment, Cas sits up in a fluid motion, cupping his hand around the back of Dean’s neck to bring him in for a kiss, maybe encouraging him not to be self-conscious, which it’s not like Dean’s shy. This is just. A lot. It’s Cas. It’s a lot.

            Without breaking the kiss, Cas shifts around to peel off his own plain, boring boxers, and once they’re gone, Dean gathers both of their hard cocks in his hand and gives them a hesitant, experimental stroke. They both groan in unison, their foreheads almost knocking together, and it takes all of Dean’s not inconsiderable willpower not to go completely boneless against him. He rests his forehead against Cas’, staring down in awe at the near-surreal sight of their dicks are rolling together in his hand, his palm and fingers already sticky with precome, and Cas is making these soft, huffing noises into Dean’s hair that are driving him absolutely insane.

            There’s a pretty flush traveling all the way up Cas’ body, up his neck, and Dean kisses the pulse-point at his throat, fascinated to feel the fast thud of his heartbeat there.

            “Wait,” Cas says softly, his voice ragged and uneven, and Dean’s hand stills, suddenly terrified he’s done something wrong. Cas gives a soft laugh at Dean’s expression and kisses his forehead. “It’s nothing like that. I want to try something.”

            “Like, kinky something?”

            Cas rolls his eyes and with a quick maneuver of limbs flips them so Dean’s on his back and Cas is hovering over him, dark-eyed and his hair wild.

            “Not exactly kinky, but something I think you’ll enjoy,” Cas says, and Dean nods wordlessly, feeling his heart hammering against the wall of his chest.

            Cas’ fingers spread out to fit the slats of his ribcage, and he lowers his head to press kisses down Dean’s sternum. Dean’s trying to keep back the full-body shake threatening to roll through him; he tilts his head back and closes his eyes. Gently, he brings one hand down to slide his fingers through Cas’ hair.

            “I built this body from scratch when I raised you,” Cas murmurs, sealing a kiss to the divot of Dean’s hipbone. “I marked each freckle, crafted each skeletal curve, feathered each eyelash.”

            “Christ,” Dean whispers, throwing an arm over his eyes at the hot rush that circuits through him at the words.

            It takes Dean a second to realize his free hand and Cas’ are intertwined, and this is the definition of ridiculous, Dean thinks hysterically, _holding hands_ while Cas goes down on him, but he can’t even pretend to hate it.

            He full-body jolts off the bed when Cas seals his lips around the head of Dean’s dick, his cheeks hollowing out to take the full length of him, and Dean shouts out something incoherent, tangled between a curse word and an indistinct yelp. His thighs, trembling, are locked vice-like to either of Cas’ shoulders, his toes curling and uncurling in the sheets.

            “You’re beautiful like this,” Cas says once he pulls off, gazing up at him wonderingly before taking Dean in his mouth again.

            “Shut up,” Dean groans, squeezing his eyes shut in mortification even as he rocks his hips into the wet heat of Cas’ mouth. “Shut up, shut up.”

            “It’s true,” Cas says with a soft laugh, seeming to get a real kick out of Dean squirming. “You’re easily the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen the rise of suns—”

            “Oh my God, _stop,_ ” Dean whines, and Cas laughs and gingerly cups his large hands under the hinges of Dean’s bent knees to spread them further apart.

            Dean’s thoughts are a giant question mark for a moment, wondering what it is Cas plans on doing, before he feels the wet, flat sweep of a tongue against his hole and his brain dissolves into a bright mess of exclamation points.

            “ _Cas!_ ” he shouts, loud enough to wake the neighbors for sure, and he feels Cas hum a quiet laugh before his tongue delves deeper, slipping past the first ring of muscle.

            This is…obscene, is what it is, Dean can’t help but think as he cries out, shamelessly rolling his hips into the motions of Cas’ enthusiastic tongue. Who the fuck just sticks a tongue inside an ass? And who the fuck knew it could be this mind-blowingly hot?

            “Cas,” Dean breathes out, his voice hitching up in a whine. “Cas, I want you to—”

            Cas goes still, surfacing for a moment to stare at Dean, his pupils huge. Dean, his body still vibrating like a plucked electric wire, swallows hard, almost losing the nerve.

            “Say it,” Cas says, and Dean, just like that, is right back on the ship.

            “I want you to fuck me,” Dean whispers, feeling his cheeks get ember-hot. “I want to—to feel you.”

            Cas doesn’t break eye contact for a moment, just surges up the length of Dean’s body to kiss him, and it’s pretty wrong, Dean thinks, tasting himself on Cas’ mouth, but he kinda not so secretly loves it.

            Cas taps two fingers at Dean’s lower lip when he pulls away, demanding entrance.

            “Suck,” he says, gentle but commanding, and by God, Dean does, just takes Cas’ fingers in his mouth, keeping wide eye contact with Cas.

            “I’ve got lube in my duffel,” Dean says when Cas pulls his fingers out, hardly believing the words have left his mouth, directed at _Cas,_ but Cas is up before he’s even finished speaking. Dean just stares up at the ceiling in dazed disbelief, feeling his dick give a few painful, pathetic throbs at the sudden lack of attention, and then Cas is back, the mattress dipping with his weight. Dean shifts his hips in preparation, squeezing his eyes shut and waiting for Cas to get the show on the road. He feels naked beyond his skin, more stripped than he ever has, like this whole thing goes beyond physical. When he cracks open his eyes, Cas is just staring at him, wide-eyed, and Dean feels heat creeping up the length of his entire body.

            “Cas, please,” he whispers, the vulnerability of the moment almost suffocating him, and Cas seems to understand, leaning forward, leaning close to seal a kiss to the bolt of Dean’s jaw, and it’s not meant to be sexy, it’s not meant to be arousing—it’s affectionate, comforting, familiar. In that moment, in a shitty motel room in Cheyenne, Dean feels absolutely safe, safer than he ever has. Loved. He runs a hand through Cas’ hair, speechless as he dips lower, pressing a soft kiss to his stomach.

            Cas looks up at him questioningly and Dean nods and closes his eyes, shifting his hips and curving his toes into the mattress.

            There’s a moment of hesitation before the tip of Cas’ finger circles his rim, still slick with Dean’s spit, and then carefully slides in up to the knuckle. Dean squeezes his eyes shut and relaxes, letting him in, and before he knows it, two of Cas’ long fingers are scissoring him, then three, lube aiding the way.

            Dean’s tried fingering himself before, sure, but it’s nothing like this, nothing like being left to the mercy of Cas’ probing, skilled hands; he just lays back and tries not to jerk his hips too much into it, huffing out soft sighs, fighting not to blow his load before Cas has even gotten to the good stuff.

            “Does that hurt?” Cas asks in a soft, concerned voice, his free hand anchoring on Dean’s hip, and Dean shakes his head, almost too overwhelmed to speak.

            “No,” he whispers, swiveling his hips experimentally. “Feels good.”

            Cas’ finger glides deeper, nailing his prostate, and Dean jack-knifes off the bed with a hoarse yell, his dick practically jumping.

            “Interesting,” Cas says, and massages the spot with two fingers now, causing Dean clench down on Cas’ fingers spasmodically and choke through a dry sob.

            “I swear to God, Cas, if you don’t—” Dean says, trying to form a coherent sentence and utterly failing. “If you don’t, I’m gonna—”

            “Okay,” Cas says, pressing a kiss to Dean’s inner thigh. “Okay, Dean.”

            There’s a beat that passes with nothing but Dean’s embarrassing, jagged breathing to fill the silence, and it seems a lot like Cas is hesitating.

            “We don’t have to—” Dean begins, even as his dick protests in betrayal.

            “No, I want to,” Cas says, keeping his head ducked. His voice sounds different, muffled or choked somehow. “I’m—I’m just—”

            Oh God, Cas is getting emotional. If Cas gets emotional Dean’s gonna fucking lose it, so he says, in what he thinks is a terrified-sounding voice, “Hey, it’s okay, you’re fine,” and Cas gives a quick nod.

            “I’m fine,” he says, more steadily. “I just—I want to remember this.”

            Dean’s throat closes up, and he can’t think of anything to say to that.

            “We’re fine,” is what his brain uselessly supplies, and he reaches out to squeeze Cas’ hand.

            Cas nods with a short swallow and uncaps the lube in his free hand, giving himself a few strokes while Dean watches hungrily, feeling a bit like a voyeur as Cas’ neck arches, his chin tipped up toward the ceiling as he palms his cock, slicking it up.

            Dean would be content to finish it off like this, but Cas has other plans, it’d seem—carefully, he leans forward, and Dean’s whole body jerks when he feels the head of Cas’ cock drag against his hole.

            “You okay?” Cas asks, still gripping his hand tightly.

            “Yeah, I’m fine,” Dean breathes, squeezing his eyes shut. “Don’t stop, please don’t stop—”

            Cas gives a startled, soft laugh of amazement, pausing once more before he presses forward and in; Dean relaxes as best as he can, trying not to whimper at the fullness of it, the inescapable heat. Cas keeps going, squeezing his hand, and when he bottoms out Dean can’t speak. He parts his mouth to say something, _anything,_ like “whoa” or even a wisecrack, but he’s completely speechless.

            “Dean?” Cas asks in concern, sliding a hand down his side, like he’s gentling a skittish horse.

            “I’m fine,” Dean says in a strangled voice, and he hates the tears he can feel pricking in the corners of his eyes. Leave it to him to cry like a baby during vanilla sex. Yeesh.

            Cas is staring at him wonderingly, his eyes wide and glazed, and he says, with what Dean thinks is formidable and very kind self-sacrifice, “I can pull out—”

            “Don’t,” Dean says, rocking his hips to back up his statement. Cas’ breath leaves him in a quick rush of surprise, his eyes falling shut at the sensation. Dean closes his eyes, his next words barely above a whisper. “I’m just. I didn’t know it would be like this.”

            Cas leans forward so that Dean’s knees are bent almost entirely to his chest, and Dean is _so_ not meant to flex that way but he can’t really bring himself to care when Cas’ mouth catches his, warm and deliberate, and Dean whines and eagerly rocks his hips the best that he can in his position, encouraging Cas to move, to switch up the angle. The hot press inside him is driving him four kinds of crazy, and while Cas might apparently have some ancient cosmic capacity for patience, Dean doesn’t.

            Cas starts to move then, rolling his hips at first in gentle, shallow circles before going deeper. He misses Dean’s prostate the first few tries, but he hits it on the fourth thrust and Dean all but keens, his fingers scrabbling for purchase in the tendons of Cas’ back. This close, with their mouths connected, Dean can hear the addictive little whimpering noises that Cas is making with each thrust, soft and punched-out, and he collects all those sounds, every sensation—the sweat pooling in the dimples of Cas’ back, the hot, wet drag of his mouth, the way he keeps looking at Dean like he’s discovered the holy fucking grail. He won’t let himself forget any of this.

            Dean’s a mess only minutes in, an overstimulated mess; every new stroke of Cas pistoning into him, his bones light up, his hard dick throbbing against his stomach, but he doesn’t fight the intensity of the sensations. He rolls into Cas’ touches and makes noises, sweet nonsense words and Cas’ name, letting every impression wash over him, fill him up.

            Cas starts to say his name then, a quiet, staccato litany under his breath, and Dean breathes his name right back into his mouth, sometimes shouting it when Cas gets the angle right. He can tell when Cas is getting close by the arrhythmic stutter of his hips, and he clenches down eagerly, causing Cas to shudder out a low moan.

            “C’mon, Cas,” Dean whispers, taking him as deep as he can. “I wanna see you.”

            Cas chokes out this low, broken sob and his hips still, and Dean feels it, the hot flood of come pulsing into him, and that’s enough to do it for him; he arches his back and comes on Cas’ cock, fast and helpless as anything, the sensations shaking straight through him as he cries out. He’s still shaking when Cas pulls out a few shocked moments later, his thighs and hands trembling, and he closes his eyes and squirms at the feeling of Cas’ come trying to leak its way back out.

            Cas leans forward to kiss him long and slow, and Dean kisses back just as languidly, both of them drowsy and sweet with post-sex sleepiness. For a long time they stay like that, Cas stretched out on top of Dean like a giant lazy cat, mirroring each other’s breathing patterns before Dean gently tips them, rolling Cas over sideways so they can face each other. Cas is still completely boneless, letting himself be manhandled, which is cute, Dean thinks. He’s never seen Cas floppy and cuddly and oversensitized like this.

            Cas reaches out to trace a finger down the slope of Dean’s nose before he outlines the cupid’s bow of his mouth; Dean blinks sleepily and lets Cas explore his face, too tired to do anything but bask under the attention.

            “So, uh, about those human desires,” he says when he finally gets his breath back, and he waggles his eyebrows at Cas’ perplexed look. “Remember? When you told me about your bucket-list?”

            A slow, small smile curls at Cas’ mouth. “Oh.”

            “Safe to say they’ve been, er, fulfilled?”

            “Exceeded,” Cas says with a throaty hum, closing his eyes, and Dean grins, pleased with himself. “It wasn’t just sex, though. Those…human desires.”

            Dean frowns, wiggling closer to Cas despite the fact that they’re both still sticky and gross with drying jizz. “What then?”

            “I wanted,” Cas says in a soft voice, and some of the post-coital zen state seems to crack at the use of past tense, “this, with you.”

            “Well, you got it—”

            “Every day,” Cas whispers, keeping his eyes shut, blocking Dean from reading the emotion there. “I wanted to wake up to this with you every day, to settle down somewhere, quit hunting and the missions, quit heaven and hell, get old together. It could—it could never, ever happen, not with our lives, not with our suffering, but I wanted that life with you.”

            Dean can’t speak. There’s something huge sitting on his chest, weighing him down like a lead anvil, crushing all the air out of his lungs.

            “I want that with you,” Dean says, when he finds his words again. “I know future me wants it with you too.”

            “I’m not so sure about that,” Cas says with a sad pull of his lips. “But even if so, we’re not meant for it. I’m not meant for it. In another life, maybe, but this life, the life that I could have had with you—it’s over before it started.”

            Dean’s eyes start to smart dangerously, a lump pulling too tight in his throat, and he can’t stop the choke in his voice when he speaks. “Stop it, Cas.”

            “I want you to remember something, when I’m gone,” Cas continues as though Dean hasn’t spoken, keeping his wet eyes fixed firmly on Dean’s. “I want you to always feel worthy of the way I love you because you deserve it. You deserve that with—with someone. Don’t settle for anything until you find it, because you deserve nothing less.”

            Dean feels the hot slide of a tear trailing down the bridge of his nose. His voice trembles. “Stop talking, Cas, just stop.”

            Cas’ voice, too, shakes on his next words. “I love you, Dean Winchester, more than you could even believe. Even when I’m gone, I won’t let the universe take that from you or from me.”

            Dean opens his mouth to reply, to return the words with the same fervor, but all he can get out is a broken, “I don’t want to live in a reality where you don’t exist.”

            “You will,” Cas murmurs, leaning forward to press a kiss to Dean’s hairline, then kisses away the tears on his cheeks. Dean closes his eyes. “You’ll be okay without me, Dean. I know you will.”

            Dean shakes his head but all the words he wants to say get completely glued to the roof of his mouth—he can’t say any of them, any of the million things he wants to say to Cas, and he loathes himself for it.

            He can’t speak words, but he can speak body, so he presses a kiss to the hollow of Cas’ collarbone, peeling back the covers so he has full access to him.

            Cas pulls in a shuddering breath and he asks, “What are you doing?”

            Dean doesn’t answer, just bends forward to sweep his tongue circularly around one dark nipple, then the other. Cas’ breathing jags and his torso goes taut, the muscles jumping in sensitivity under Dean’s touch, but Dean doesn’t let it deter him; he moves his focus to the pentagram tattoo above Cas’ left pec, swirling his tongue to follow the shape.

            “Dean,” Cas says, which he maybe intended to be a protest but the attempt falls completely flat—his voice comes out breathless, debauched, his hands gripping onto Dean’s shoulders.

            Dean shapes either hand to the curve of Cas’ hips, kissing down Cas’ ribs, flicking a tongue in his navel. Cas’ muscles jump under his mouth, tightening in surprise, and Dean shifts his attention to the Enochian tattoo on Cas’ hipbone. Carefully, with expert precision, he traces the tip of his tongue along the lines and curves of the sigil—Cas’ hips tilt up into it and he whines, needy under the attention.

            Cas is slowly getting hard again—Dean can feel the head of his dick dragging against his chest as he works, and his mouth feels completely swollen with the friction and pressure of Cas’ skin against his lips, but it’s worth it to hear the soft, desperate noises Cas is making, to taste the salt straight off his skin.

            “Dean,” Cas says, much more weakly than before.

            “Shh, I’ve got you,” Dean says, pressing his lips to the line of Cas’ inner thigh. He can feel the muscle trembling under his mouth, so he kisses his way up to the dark curve of Cas’ groin. Finally, after an up-close _whoa, that’s a dick, a real-life dick_ moment, he steels his resolve and tongues the head of Cas’ cock curiously. He keeps his eyes trained up so he has the reward of seeing Cas’ mouth drop open and his head fall back.

            Encouraged that he’s doing something right, Dean wraps a hand around the base of Cas’ cock and takes him deeper, allowing the head of his cock to bump the back of his soft palate, and Cas white-knuckles the sheets, fighting to keep his hips locked to the bed, presumably so he doesn’t hurt Dean.

            Dean keeps going with more confidence, locking eyes with Cas, who won’t stop biting his lips to keep from making noise and is staring back at Dean in a mixture of amazement and distress. Tenderly, Cas reaches out one hand to touch the bulge of Dean’s cheek, fixing on it in fascination as Dean starts to bob his head faster.

            “Dean,” Cas whispers, starting to shake harder, and Dean pulls off for just a second to shush him, abandoning his endeavor to kiss up the length of Cas’ body, finally pressing his slick mouth to Cas’. Cas’ tongue slides behind Dean’s teeth, like he’s curious to taste what Dean had tasted, and Dean’s rock-hard now again, just from watching Cas get off.

            “Hey,” Dean murmurs as Cas’ breathing starts to pick up into hitching groans. He starts to stroke Cas, pumping his fist just fast enough to keep up the friction. “You’re okay. I’ve got you, Cas, I’ve got you.”

            Cas’ hand fumbles somewhere around Dean’s waist, and it takes Dean a belated moment to realize Cas is trying to jerk him off.

            “With me,” Cas says breathlessly, looking to Dean glassy-eyed and with determination. He takes Dean in his hand, and Dean nods, wordless, canting his hips into Cas’ grip.

            It only takes Dean a few seconds—the second orgasm hits him in a fast, fierce burst of sensation, and when his mouth falls open, Cas pulls at his lower lip gently with his teeth. Dean opens his eyes in time to see the expression on Cas’ face as he comes, the scrunched brow and the open, panting mouth, and for a few moments, Dean doesn’t let himself breathe, just keeps kissing Cas until he feels lightheaded.

            Dean slumps into Cas’ chest when he pulls away to catch his breath, his temple sticking to Cas’ skin with sweat. He listens to his breathing slow down, closes his eyes contentedly at the feeling of Cas’ hand stroking methodically through his damp hair.

            “Hey,” Dean mumbles, pressing a sleepy kiss to Cas’ collarbone. “Love you.”

            Cas rubs a thumb over the hinge of his jaw, his hand sliding to cup Dean’s neck, where his pulse is only starting to slow. “Me too.”

            Dean can already feel his body tugging him toward sleep, endorphins making him sleepy, and he blinks hard, fighting to stay awake.

            “Hey,” he says again, trying to keep the panic from his voice. “Don’t let me fall asleep, okay?”

            Cas starts carding his fingers through Dean’s hair again, and Dean rocks slowly into the sensation, his eyes sliding shut.

            “You should sleep,” Cas says quietly. “You and Sam have to be on the road tomorrow.”

            “Cas,” Dean whispers, nosing at his collarbone.

            “Sleep, Dean,” Cas says, and Dean succumbs to the dark tide pulling him in.

\---

            When Dean wakes up, things feel…off. Sam’s in bed where he’s supposed to be, asleep across from him, his mouth parted on a soft snore. Dean frowns and sits up, still unable to shake this weird residual anxiety, like he’d fallen asleep stressed out about something, but he’s staring down the mouth of hell every day, so it’s not like vague stress is exactly a new item on the agenda.

            “Hey,” Dean says, picking up a shoe from the floor next to his bed and lobbing it at Sam’s sleeping head.

            “Fucking _ow,_ Dean,” Sam snaps, bitching into consciousness.

            “It’s already like 10 am. You ready to go or what?”

            “Fuck off,” Sam grumbles, burying his head in the pillow.

            Dean gets up, brushes his teeth, gets dressed, gets ready to hit the road.

            Everything’s normal. Everything’s the same.

            Dean can’t shake the feeling, deep in his bones, that something’s gone terribly wrong.


	14. Chapter 14

**November 4, 2010**

            Dean flips up the underside of his watch to check the time, and then about a minute later, he checks it impatiently again. He drums his knuckles on the bar-top, restless and on edge—Psychic Lady had said she’d be here by now, and he’s kind of got a lot of non-hunting related things he’d like to get back to. Such as not hunting.

            He scans the bar door swinging open for each new entry, scoping out for anyone who looks witchy enough to pass off as a medium, but another five minutes tick by and Dean’s still sitting on his ass alone and the bartender’s clearly starting to get irritated with him.

            The door creaks open again and the second he sees her, Dean knows—her eyes magnetize to him instantly, and she smiles in this knowing way that makes the hairs on the back of Dean’s neck prickle. His skin downright crawls thinking about all that this lady’s reading off of him, but he nods subtly in her direction to acknowledge her.

            “Dean Winchester?” she asks, way too loudly for Dean’s liking as she approaches with a swing to her hips and a toss of her dark curls. She’s got these huge, bright green eyes, sharp as a whip, and the curve in her smile lets Dean know quite patently that she could probably eat him alive if she wanted to.

            Dean nods and sticks out a hand for her to shake.

            “Pamela Barnes,” the psychic says, taking his hand firmly.

            “Nice to meet you, I guess,” Dean says as Pamela takes up the barstool next to him. “So, uh, what’s this about?” Pamela opens her mouth to begin, but Dean cuts her off on an afterthought. “And before you start, know that it took a lot to drag my ass in here in the first place. I’m in retirement.”

            “Do hunters ever really retire, though?” Pamela asks, arching one perfectly sculpted dark eyebrow.

            “This one does,” Dean says stubbornly. “What exactly’s going on? Like I said, not guaranteeing I’ll help.”

            “Well,” Pamela says, and then she side-eyes him, her expression growing somber. “First off, I want to say I’m sorry for your loss.”

            Dean nods shortly, wanting to move on with the niceties. He gets condolences a lot from the hunting world, whenever they intersect these days, and he’s not really in the mood for them.

            “I know how close you were with your brother,” Pamela says, which seriously, _why._ Why is she talking. “And Bobby, I knew him well. He was a nice guy, a good…good guy.”

            “Are you gonna cut to the chase?” Dean says, on edge. He glances around, making sure he can’t see any familiar faces from the neighborhood that might call him out. It’s small enough around here that people talk.

            Pamela’s green eyes narrow into slits, cat-like. “Oh, I’m sorry. Is my magic wand disturbing your bubble of domestic bliss?”

            “It is, in fact,” Dean says, his tone just as clipped. “What is it you want?”

            Pamela hesitates, drawing one long, curved fingernail along the bar-top. “The other side’s been real chatty lately. _Real_ chatty. Usually I just kinda block it out, unless it’s big stuff, but then the talk got…specific.”

            Dean waits, not liking where this is going.

            “There’s…whispers,” Pamela says, pinning him with her bright, probing gaze again. “Whispers of an upset in heaven.”

            “ _Heaven?_ ” Dean echoes. “The hell’s that got to do with me?”

            Pamela looks appropriately exasperated. “We both know damn well you’re the only hunter around who’s tangled with angels. This is right up your alley of expertise.”

            “Look, lady, if you wanted me to nope out of this faster than I normally would’ve, ‘angels’ just sealed the deal,” Dean says, making to stand up. “Goodbye.”

            “Wait,” Pamela says, a hand flitting to pincer around his wrist. “Dean, wait. Please.”

            Dean hesitates before he sighs and sinks back into the barstool grudgingly.

            “There’s talk,” Pamela says, lowering her voice, “of an angel building a war machine—fellow angels, fellow garrisons, a coming storm. Rumor has it he wants to start the apocalypse up again.”

            “So what?” Dean snaps.

            “That would mean,” Pamela retorts, just as terse, “that your brother and Bobby died for nothing. It would mean Sam getting his ass yanked back from hell with Lucifer still inside him and half the world getting blown to shit. Is that what you want, Dean? Because I doubt it.”

            “I don’t hunt anymore,” Dean says, although her words are shaking him up, twisting his stomach into knots. “Find someone else to deal with it.”

            “No one else has dealt with angels—” Pamela starts to argue again, and Dean interrupts, “I don’t give a _fuck_ about the angels. I don’t give a fuck about the apocalypse. The world can go to hell in a hand-basket for all I care.”

            Pamela stares, seeming deeply disturbed for the first time since they first started talking. Maybe, with her extra psychic senses or whatever, she can tell he actually means it.

            “I’m not your guy,” Dean says, standing up from the bar. “Find someone else.”

            “Dean,” Pamela says again, but she sounds defeated. “There’s no one else. Don’t turn your back on the world when it needs you.”

            Dean throws down a tip on the bar. “Done my time. Find someone else.” And he leaves Pamela sitting at the bar alone.

\--

            As fate would have it, the universe still hates Dean Winchester, because Pamela shows up again. At Lisa’s house, at the fucking front door.

            “Would you stay the hell away from me?” Dean says the second the door swings open. “I’m gonna get a restraining order out on you.”

            Pamela tilts her head sardonically. “Dean, a restraining order? You’ve gone practically suburban.” She suddenly refocuses her gaze—or unfocuses it. Her green eyes go glassy, like she’s seeing beyond Dean’s skin. “Why are you crying?”

            “What?” Dean says, bushwhacked, and raises a fast hand to his cheek, just to make sure. “I’m not crying.”

            “You’re not,” Pamela murmurs, her gaze still unfocused and glazed. “But your soul is.”

            “Okay, my soul is weeping, whatever. If I pay you thirty bucks for a reading will you go away?”

            “Dean?” Lisa’s voice floats in from behind him from the staircase, and Dean bites back a low curse word. “Who is that?”

            “No one,” Dean calls back, trying to keep his voice upbeat. “Just an old friend. I’ll be back in a second.” He shuts the front door behind him before he can listen for Lisa’s suspicious silence.

            “Seriously,” he hisses, grabbing Pamela’s wrist to pull her away from the front porch. “Beat it. I told you I don’t want anything to do with this.”

            “You think this is what Sam would want?” Pamela demands, which is a low fucking card to pull and Dean kinda hates her for it. “Bobby? They didn’t die for this, Dean.”

            “Sam wanted me to get out and have a life,” Dean snaps back. “You don’t know jack-shit.”

            “This angel, Raphael—” Pamela starts in again, and it takes all in Dean’s power not to plug his ears and “la-la-la” her out of existence.

            “What did I say? I don’t give a shit about angels.” Dean hates the skeevy fucks—every one he’s met, he’s experienced some violent vision involving stabbing them in the face. “Angels are what got my brother killed, what got Bobby killed, what screwed my ass over more times than I can even begin to count. So excuse me if I can’t find it in me to give a fuck that they suddenly need my help again.”

            “It’s not just angels,” Pamela says testily. “It’s everything, it’s everywhere. At first I thought it was just rumors, but this guy is gaining power fast and if he goes unchecked—”

            “I don’t care,” Dean says, starting to turn back toward the front door. “Don’t come back here again.”

            “There is something else,” Pamela says, and the hesitation in her voice causes Dean to turn. “Things…people disappearing, with no trace of where they’ve gone. I don’t know exactly what it is, but something’s not right.”

            Dean closes his eyes at the sudden, nauseous flash of déjà vu that these words spark.

            Pamela, of course, reads this off of him immediately. “Can you at least tell me what you know?”

            Dean casts a furtive look back to the house, scouting out for Lisa or Ben, before he runs a tongue over his teeth and grimaces. “It was a case Sam and I worked years ago—while Sam was still at Stanford. He’s got…he…had, y’know, abilities. He could tell what was up, when people started vanishing. But the case went cold years ago. I don’t know anything else about it.”

            “I don’t like it,” Pamela whispers, and she gets that haunted thousand-mile stare again, like she’s seeing that something Dean can’t. “It’s not right.”

            There’s something strange stirring in Dean—some weird sensation that Pamela’s words had dredged up. He can’t put his finger on it, but it’s like there’s a nagging loose end in his brain. He dismisses it, but the feeling doesn’t leave him—that wrongness, like there’s something obvious he’s missing.

            “I’ll go,” Pamela says, to Dean’s surprise, and she slides her hands in her jean pockets, heading for her blue Prius parked on the street. “You have my number. Give me a ring if you’re up for saving the world again.”

Dean watches her go, fighting the hard swallow in his throat.

            Lisa’s waiting for him when he gets inside, her arms crossed and her brow creased with trepidation.

            “Hunting friend?” she asks, casually enough, but there’s a knowingness to her tone that unsettles Dean. He suddenly resents Pamela for showing up out of the blue, for throwing his carefully constructed normalcy out of alignment.

            “Uh, yeah,” Dean says, shutting the front door behind him with his foot. “But it’s nothing she can’t handle by herself. I told her I’m retired.”

            “You still sleep with a gun under your pillow,” Lisa says quietly, crossing her arms tighter. “You salt the windowsills.”

            Dean tries to smile, but it just makes his face hurt. “Yeah, well. You can leave the life, but the life doesn’t leave you.” He gives her a quick peck on the cheek as he goes past toward the kitchen, but he knows neither of them feels it.

\---

            Later that week, Dean’s standing at the kitchen sink watching the morning sun rise over the yard sleepily, holding a coffee-mug to his lips. Ben’s already at school and Lisa’s leaned over at the counter behind him, her hips swaying absently back and forth as she fills out the morning crossword.

            “Greek vowel,” she murmurs to herself, then says out loud, just as quietly, “iota,” and her pen scritches as she fills in the letter blocks.

            “Leaves could use raking,” Dean says, noting that he can barely see the grass of the yard anymore.

            “Japanese samurai ritual of suicide,” Lisa says as a question, sounding perturbed.

            “Seppuku,” Dean says, glancing over his shoulder.

            Lisa’s pen taps as she counts the letters, then she blinks, looking up at Dean in surprise. “I didn’t know you knew Japanese.”

            There’s a sudden blinding pain in Dean’s head, like someone had taken a baseball bat straight to his skull, and he hears this shattering sound, everywhere—he realizes, belatedly through the searing stab in his brain, that it’s his coffee mug dropping and splintering on the tile floor. When he comes to, Lisa’s rubbing his back and shoulders, saying in a wild voice, “Dean? _Dean_?”

            “I’m fine,” he says through panting, rubbing at his temples and squeezing his eyes shut so he sees colors. “Just a—migraine or somethin’.”

            He looks up dizzily to meet Lisa’s dark, concerned eyes, and she bites her lip.

            “I’m worried about you,” she whispers, her eyes searching his face.

            Dean nods, closing his eyes. “I’m worried about me too.”

\---

            As luck would have it, he and Lisa decide to take a break a month later.

            “I just need some space,” is what Lisa says during the breakup—which it’s _not_ a breakup, she says, just a see-you-later, but Dean knows the score. “Just for a little while. I hope you understand.”

            Lisa cries during the conversation, keeps saying how terrible she feels as she clasps and unclasps her hands, but Dean doesn’t hold her to any fault. He nods with her words and he does, he does understand—but he knows it’s not herself Lisa’s acting for. She’s worried about Ben, worried about the dark things that Dean attracts like moths to an open flame. She doesn’t have to say it for Dean to get it. He agrees, even. Putting distance between him and the Braedens is hands-down the safest way to keep them out of danger—he’s beyond convinced by now that he’s cursed, somehow, some way. Maybe it was a witch he tussled with that put a lifelong hex on him, maybe someone cast some dark voodoo on the Winchester genetic line long ago, but either way, Dean’s come to think of himself like a black hole. Just sucks people and things into his gravity and destroys them.

            So yeah, he gets it. Dean’s not really meant for family life, anyway. He’s always known that, but for those months with Lisa, he’d let himself buy into the lie. He’d swallowed the bait, hook in throat.

            Lisa’s kind enough to let him stay through Christmas, and they don’t tell Ben that anything’s amiss, but Dean thinks he might sense it—that he might pick up on the undercurrent that something, whatever family dynamic they’ve got going, is tapering to a close, even if just temporarily. Dean’s not so sure how temporary it is though.

            Dean packs his bags at the New Year, kisses Lisa on the cheek, rumples Ben’s hair, and then he’s on his way. It’s the first time he’s been behind the Impala’s wheel since Stull, and it feels a lot like dying all over again. She feels cold to him, alien—no longer a home, but a vessel of the dead, a house to memories he doesn’t want anymore. His palms itch to take her apart, break her down to scrap metal and rebuild her up all over again, maybe in the hopes that the residue from his old life will get scrubbed away.

            He drives around aimless for a few days, ignoring the long-ingrained instinct to start checking local news sources again in the chance that he’ll pick up on a hunt. He’s too tired to hunt, and besides, he’s out of practice anyway. With nothing but the open road as a bald eye to his conscience, Pamela’s words knock together like rocks in his brain.

            _You think this is what Sam would want?_

Sam had _told_ him to get out. Sam had wanted him to. It’d been his dying wish. And Dean had, he’d gotten out. But Dean’s stuck on something else too. Pamela’d mentioned the angels raising Sam from hell with Lucifer still inside him—for the apocalypse, sure, the apocalypse that he’d stopped at the cost of his remaining family, but that’s another thing entirely. He doesn’t want to hope, doesn’t want to even _think_ that there’s a chance of getting Sam back.

            And then there’s the migraines, along with the constant, frustrating feeling like he’s forgetting things, but that he’s already forgotten what he’s forgotten. Almost like he’d set something down in his mind and forgot where to pick it back up again. It drives him up the wall, and it gets worse when he’s left alone with his thoughts on the highway. He thinks it might be the post-stress of losing Sam and Bobby, but he gets these sort of…auras in his vision, almost like he can trace out the apparitions of people missing from his life. He dreams of them sometimes, in blues and browns, but every time he reaches out a desperate hand to clap on the shoulder, to whirl the figure around and stare it in the face, it slips from grasp and he wakes up in a cold sweat. He’s never seen its face, but the figure haunts his dreams, a periphery presence among the nightmares he still has from Stull—repeating images of the slow-motion fall of Sam jumping in the pit, the sick, hollow crack of Bobby’s neck breaking.

            Dean flinches, closes his eyes. He’s pretty sure he started going crazy a while ago. Figures he’d pick up a dream-ghost or two along the way, with his line of work. Normal people get haunted and followed by spirits as it is, let alone someone who spends his life buried in them.

            Pamela’s number, still in his phone contacts, seems to burn through his back pocket.

\---

            That night, Dean dreams of the apparition again—the blue ghost, as he’s started to think of it. He can see it standing still in a crowd, just standing there dead still as the faceless crowds break around it like currents around a boulder. The rest of the crowd’s faces are an indistinct blur, and Dean starts to push through them, wading through the sea of people, fighting toward the apparition.

            “Wait,” he hears himself say. The apparition has its back turned to him. “Wait.”

            As Dean gets closer, as he sometimes can, he can _feel_ it—this warmth pulsing from its core, warmth Dean thinks he’s known before. Almost like it’s a memory.

            He reaches out a hand, touching the apparition’s shoulder, and he gets this immediate flash—nothing decipherable, but a fierce sensation of familiarity, like what he’d imagine walking into an old family home feels like. The apparition vanishes just as fast, and Dean wakes up with his heart banging in his chest like it’s gonna burst.

            Dean pants raggedly into the empty darkness of the motel room and clings onto that sensation, straining to remember all he can about the blue ghost, but it’s already fading from memory, and by the time Dean wakes up again, with morning cracking through the windows, it’s nothing but a faint, confusing impression. Like he’d had an important dream that he can’t quite call back.

            Dean pulls out his phone, and before he knows it, he’s sifting through news sources on his limited internet data. Old and buried instincts nag him to pause on odd, small cases that any other reader would sweep past.

            There are a few weird potential cases to choose from, but he chooses one at random and the next thing he knows, Dean’s shrugging on his jacket and warming up the Impala, pulling her on the highway, Illinois-bound.

\---

            It does turn out to be a case, and lucky for Dean, one that makes it easy enough for him to get back in the saddle. The ghost of an angry ex-pastor is haunting one of the local cathedrals, scaring away churchgoers by throwing things on the altar during masses and moving the communion ingredients around so they go missing. Dean dresses down and pretends to be a local; he talks to some teary-eyed altar boys directly following one of the morning services, young kids who’d “seen things” while they’d been cross-bearing or whatever Catholic hoopla it is altar kids do. When he tries to talk to one of the other priests, he gets shooed off with a haughty, suspicious look. Always leave it to the religious people to be non-believers when it counts the most.

            Dean does some digging into the church’s history on his own and finds that sure enough, a pastor named Pastor Matthew Hendrix had died suddenly of a heart attack while cleaning up the church alone after an evening mass one night. Dean figures the dude’s probably pissed he never got administered last rites, so he heads to the local cemetery once midnight ticks past and digs up old Pastor Matt.

            It’s dirty work and it makes his shoulders and back knot up and ache in protest, his body completely out of shape for the job, and it’d be a lot faster with Sam or another hunter by his side, but Dean can’t think about Sam without seriously choking up or feeling like he’s gonna kill something, so he keeps him far out of his mind. He digs up the pastor as quickly and efficiently as he can and salts and burns him without any ceremony before shifting all the wet dirt back into the open grave.

            He camps out in the Impala that night, even though the backseat is cramped and uncomfortable and far from ideal for a guy as tall as Dean is—plus it’s cold as balls, given it’s the middle of winter, but he’s too exhausted to even attempt to shag ass to a motel, so he falls asleep in the car, his hands still caked with dirt and his clothes muddy. He’s always gotten this weird sense that the Impala keeps him warm of her own autonomy through the nights anyway, when he does actually sleep in her.

            Even though he’s still sleep-foggy and sore as a bitch when he wakes up the next morning, he decides to drive the Impala back to the church for a morning mass, just to make sure he hadn’t burned the wrong bones or that nothing more sinister goes down. He hangs quietly in the back pew during the service, his hands still dirty and the armpits of his shirt and jacket crusted with dry sweat, but God’s supposed to be all-welcoming or whatever, so he figures he’ll allow for some B.O. in his house.

            The service makes Dean’s skin crawl even as an objective observer—all these believers, intoning the same prayers of worship over and over again to a God that doesn’t actually give a flying crapsack about them, about anything on the planet. Prayers to a God that would sit with a thumb up his ass and watch the world get blown to pieces—a God that let a demon into his brother’s nursery, a God that allowed his mom to char up into nothing on the ceiling, a God that let him rot for decades in hell, a God that couldn’t give a pair of fucks that Sam’s burning in the cage for eternity. His hands are shaking halfway through the homily, wobbling on the pew bench, and he isn’t sure if it’s with fury or something else, something else entirely.

            He hates this place, this stuffy temple of lies. He feels like it’s suffocating him, like he doesn’t belong, like his soul’s filthy.

            The second the priest walks past his pew at the service’s close, Dean’s outta there like a bat out of hell, but he gets caught up in the throngs of people, mobbing after the priest like the bunch of mindless followers they are. Almost all of them cast him strange, judgmental looks, in their buttoned-up pristine expensive church attire, and Dean’s face feels hot and blotchy. He almost wants to wash the dirt from his hands in the bin of holy water just to be spiteful, but he doesn’t, just keeps trying to push through while all the churchgoers stare.

            He accidentally rams shoulders with someone dipping his hand into the holy water basin, and the guy turns with an instinctive protest, Dean turns to apologize, and he just gets…stuck. His brain short-circuits and the next thing he knows, his hand’s on the guy’s shoulder, clasping hard enough to hurt, a migraine bursting behind his eyes with enough pain to bring him to a knee.

            The guy almost goes down with him at the force of Dean’s grip, and he reaches out to catch his shoulder in turn, blue eyes wide with alarm.

            “You okay, sir?” he asks, and Dean’s breathing hard, blood pounding behind his eyes, and his face feels wet. When he raises a shaking hand to his face, he realizes it’s because he’s crying.

            The guy is staring at him in complete alarm, his trenchcoat and suit-jacket rumpled from where Dean had grabbed onto him, and he asks again, blinking in confusion at the tears running down Dean’s face, “Sir, are you okay? Do I need to call an ambulance—”

            “Don’t,” Dean says, staring at him, trying to get a grip, trying to understand. The migraine shakes him to his core, blue auras spiraling around the guy. “No hospitals.”

            More people are staring, some starting to crowd around with maybe the intention of intervening, and the churchgoer dude glances around awkwardly, like he’s trying to detach association with Dean but he doesn’t know how.

            “Dad?” a young girl says from directly behind Dean. “Mom’s waiting in the car.”

            “Just a second, hon,” the man says, and he puts a gentle hand on Dean’s shoulder again. Dean rights himself quickly, jerking away from the man’s grasp, trying to recover.

            “You sure you’re gonna be okay?” the man asks—he’s got bright, kind blue eyes, framed by dark lashes, and Dean can’t look into them for more than a second without getting dizzy. The church is starting to clear out now, leaving just Dean, the stranger, and an extra few people that have hung back to talk to the priest.

            “I’m fine,” Dean says, and the voice doesn’t sound like his. “Sorry.” He turns shakily to glance at the young girl behind him, who’s staring at him with big blue eyes in unabashed curiosity, her blond hair woven in a formal braid that falls over her shoulder.

            “Take care, then,” the man says, brushing past Dean to put a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Come on, Claire.”

            “Who was that?” he hears the girl asking in a hushed voice as her dad ushers her from the church, and Dean braces himself on the holy water basin with both hands, trying to make sense out of what the fuck just happened to him.

            He stays there for a moment with his eyes squeezed shut, trying to swallow back the nausea; he stays long enough for the priest to approach him and ask, kindly, “Is there something I can help you with, sir?”

            The priest’s eyes float down with interest to Dean’s dirt-crusted hands, then back up to the tear-streaks on his cheeks, and Dean immediately breaks away from the basin.

            “No,” he says. “I was just leaving.”

            The priest gives him a questioning look before he gives an uncertain nod and turns away. Dean heads out of the church as fast as he can, hands trembling as he fumbles for the Impala’s keys, entirely unable to shake off the weird physical reaction he’s having—and to a complete stranger, for fuck’s sake.

            There’d been something, some sort of déjà vu when he’d grabbed the guy’s shoulder—some brief flash of the feeling he’d lived in his dreams.

            He’s still shaking when he gets to the car, and before he knows it, he’s pulling out his phone and sapping his remaining internet data to search White Pages, plumbing through until he finds Pamela Barnes’ name and address.

            Turns out she’s a few hours’ drive, three at most, and Dean peels out of the church parking lot, headed west.


	15. Chapter 15

            Naturally, Pamela already knows he’s coming. There’s a piece of paper taped on the front door that reads, “Hi, Dean—I’m out back” and Dean rolls his eyes and rips the note off. Frigging mediums.

            The grass is crunchy with frost as Dean rounds the side of the house—the only sound that echoes in the quiet is the crackling under his boots. It’s weird to think of Pamela living here, in the middle of a normal-looking neighborhood, surrounded by cookie-cutter houses and manicured lawns.

            Pamela’s waiting for him on the screened-in back porch next to a heat-lamp, her bright green eyes tracking his progress up the back steps. Dean gives a short, awkward wave and lets himself in; Pamela curls the blanket around her tighter with the cold blast it brings in.

            “So you know why I’m here, then?” Dean says with a short nod. “Guess that’ll save me some explaining.”

            “Sit down for a moment, Dean,” Pamela says, patting the cushion beside her and scooting over. She then says, distinctly under her breath, “Ow.”

            “Ow what?”

            “You,” Pamela says, closing her eyes and bringing fingers to her temple to rub in slow circles. “Your soul is in pain. Screaming at me about something or other.” She tilts her head, seeming to focus harder even as she winces. “Something it wants me to know. But I’m not sure what. I’m not sure you’re sure either.”

            “Great,” Dean says. “Now that we’ve got the cryptic vague greeting out of the way—”

            “It’s not a joke, Dean,” Pamela says, her eyes flaring open sharply. “I told you at Lisa’s that something’s not right and I meant it. You might not be able to see it, but I do. It’s everywhere—all the time.” She hesitates, a line creasing between her eyebrows. “It’s almost like I can’t remember a time when I haven’t seen it.”

            “We still talking about angel shit?” Dean asks, feeling lost and frustrated, saddled with way more questions than answers. “Seen _what_?”

            “The darkness,” Pamela says. “Well, capital-D Darkness. It’s like this…” Her fist clenches slowly in demonstration. “This force of time and nature. It can uproot things, manifest as whatever it likes. When I see it, it takes the form of this dark cloud, but it can appear however it wants. I…I think—well, I’m pretty sure that it’s been taking people.”

            Dean’s throat feels too tight and he tries to swallow. “You think it took someone from me?”

            “Yes,” Pamela whispers, locking her gaze with his. “I really do, Dean.”

            “How the hell would I know, then?” Dean demands, sinking back into the cushions of the bench. “Who it even was, I mean?”

            “You wouldn’t,” Pamela says. “But I suspect that’s why your instinct was to come to me.”

            Dean shakes his head. “Don’t know anything about any Darkness. I came to you because freaky stuff’s been happening to me. Stuff I can’t explain. Weird dreams, migraines—”

            “Dean, I know,” Pamela interrupts, not impolitely. “I can see it.”

            “Okay,” Dean says. “So you think it all has something to do with…this Darkness, or whatever?”

            “Maybe,” Pamela says, drawing the blanket tighter around herself and gnawing on her lip. “I’m not sure.”

            “Is it evil? Something I can hunt?”

            Pamela slowly shakes her head, like she’s still listening in to something Dean can’t hear. “It’s not good nor bad. It doesn’t exactly have a conscience. But I think it can be used for evil purposes. I think it can be harnessed.”

            “Well, that’s fantastic,” Dean grumbles, folding his arms against the cold and blowing out a fast breath. “So, what. What am I supposed to do?”

            “I need you to tell me,” Pamela says all of a sudden, apparently diverting to a different train of thought, “what happened when you got out of hell, Dean.”

            Dean makes a scoffing noise, trying to mask how thrown he is by the request. “A lot of stuff’s happened.” Besides, hell’s not exactly on his warm and fuzzy list of memories.

            “I want to know,” Pamela persists, and Dean sighs, taking a moment to collect his thoughts.

            “I’m sure you already know the whole shindig, but,” he begins after another moment of silence. “Sold my soul to keep Sammy alive, tried to outrun Lilith for about a year. Went to hell. Some dick angel Uriel dug me up a few months later, but after that he went evil—started working for Satan and stuff—so Sam and I had to take him out.” Dean wets his lips, trying to remember a solid series of events, but post-hell is a tangled blur in his memory of hellfire and nightmares. “I’m sure you know the rest. The angels tried to make me their bitch to bring on the apocalypse, tricked Sam into jumpstarting the whole thing. There was this whole deal with seals getting broken, and then the Horsemen, and then….” It suddenly gets hard to breathe. Dean’s head starts to swim. “And then Stull.”

            “Hmm,” Pamela says, then says again, twice as long, “Hmm.”

            “Abridged version, but you get the picture.”

            “I do,” Pamela says, then stands with the blanket still wrapped around her. “Come inside for a minute.”

            She turns off the heat lamp as Dean lets himself in through the back door, feeling the warmth of the house’s heater start to tingle in his cheeks, and he looks around in interest. It’s pretty much a typical house, other than a few decks of tarot cards stacked up on the bookshelves and some poorly concealed crystals under squares of cloth.

            “Nice, isn’t it?” Pamela says, moving toward the basement. “Now’s the part where I show you my sex dungeon.”

            Dean snorts, following after Pamela. “Well, shucks. I’m not that kinda girl, Pamela.”

            “Girls, boys…” Pamela trails off suggestively as she flicks on the basement light and starts to pick her way down the stairs. “A few have been through here.”

            Pamela’s “sex dungeon” turns out to be like a small psychic cave, a Freudian couch draped in a pine-green cover, a crystal ball set out on the table, and more tarot cards and crystals scattered around. There are bead curtains and tapestries adorning each wall.

            “Take a seat on the couch for a second, Dean,” Pamela says, and Dean obeys, settling back to get more comfortable.

            “Okay, so,” Pamela says, taking up the seat next to the couch and rubbing her hands so her rings clack together. “We’ve got a couple of options here.”

            “Which are?”

            “One, you could let all this continue and chalk it up to PTSD. The migraines, the nightmares, the bouts of disassociation and amnesia—it’s pretty easy to believe that it’s nothing other than psychological trauma. There’s still the chance it might _be_ nothing other than psychological trauma. But I don’t suspect you really believe that.”

            “What’s option two?” Dean says in agreement.

            “Option two is a bit more mental,” Pamela says with a short, raspy chuckle. “I can potentially use hypnosis to bring repressed memories to the surface of your conscious mind. I should warn you that the result aren’t always pretty.” She looks up at him through dark lashes, her face deadly serious. “Things get repressed for a reason, Dean.”

            “Don’t I know it,” Dean mutters, rolling his shoulders. “Still, I’ll take my chances. What’s a little more hell, right?”

            Pamela bites down on her lower lip and stops rubbing her hands together.

            “Dean,” she says, in this voice that gives Dean the sudden, creeping suspicion that she might know more than she’s letting on. “What I do show you—even if you can remember what you’ve lost, _if_ you can; I’m not sure, given I’ve never tried it on something like this—I can’t guarantee it won’t cause you more pain.”

            Dean frowns. “What do you mean?”

            “If you have lost someone,” Pamela says, seeming to mince words, “to this force, this Darkness. This could potentially just catch your soul up to your mind and body—you’ll know what you already know on a spiritual level. That doesn’t mean you can change anything, though.”

            Dean doesn’t say anything, waiting for Pamela to explain.

            “If it _is_ the case that you’ve lost someone, which I’m not saying it is,” Pamela says, “there’s really nothing you can do to get them back. You’ll have the memories but also the pain of losing them, missing them as one would grieve over the dead.”

            Dean swallows, suddenly catching on to the trepidation in Pamela’s voice.

            “So I need to ask again if you’re sure you want to go through with this,” Pamela says.

            “I’m sure,” Dean replies, after only a moment’s hesitation. “If this thing really has nabbed someone, I need to know about it. I want the migraines, the freaky dreams, the visions to stop.” His voice drops lower, remembering his reaction to the man in the church. “I need to know.”

            “Okay,” Pamela says with a quick nod, standing with a stretch. “Time for a trip down the rabbit-hole.”

            Dean lies out on his back at Pamela’s suggestion, folding his hands at his chest and closing his eyes. For a few moments, there’s nothing but tense silence on his end, the sound of his own breathing and Pamela slowly moving things around.

            Then, he feels cool, soft hands on his forehead, and instantly, this feeling of peace seeps through him, like he’s floating at the bottom of a deep pool.

            “I’m going to count down from five, Dean,” Pamela says in a murmur, keeping her hands in place, and Dean already feels sleepiness creeping in at her words. “When I reach zero, you’ll be in a state of deep hypnosis. As I count down, go deeper and deeper into your mind. Now five…four…three…”

            Dean feels his body go lax, completely at Pamela’s mercy.

            “…two…one…zero. Deep sleep. Completely relaxed. Can you hear me, Dean?”

            “Yes, I can hear you,” Dean answers, but he’s not consciously speaking the words—it’s like he’s letting his mouth talk for him.

            “Good. I’m going to use psychic energy now to delve deeper into your memories—let them flash before you. Deep sleep, deep breaths.”

            Dean feels his chest expand, then fall, expand, then fall, but nothing else—until a small pinprick of light pops up behind his eyes, like he’s staring down a very long, dark tunnel.

            “Who are you forgetting, Dean?” Pamela murmurs, and it sounds to him like her voice is muffled, warped somehow, like there’s cotton jammed in his ears. “Who’s been taken from you?”

            “I don’t know,” Dean whispers, and he feels it, then—this wall in his mind. He feels like he can line his toes up to it but can’t get over it or go around it. He stands at the wall and waits.

            “I think you do know,” Pamela says, still in that soothing voice. “Deeeep down. Who can’t you remember?”

            “I don’t know,” Dean says again. The wall remains resolutely in place.

            “Dean, you have to let go,” Pamela says. “Let go of the pain, hell, the parts of yourself you keep locked up. Break down the barriers and give yourself over to your mind.”

            Dean’s completely still. He can’t even feel himself breathing anymore.

            “Who raised you from hell, Dean?”

            “Uriel,” Dean answers automatically.

            “Think harder.”

            Dean can feel frustration breaking through some of his sleep state like ice splintering—too hard, too hard, too hard to remember. It hurts, hurts, hurts—

            “Dean,” Pamela says. “Relax. Breathe deeply. Let yourself go.”

            Dean swallows and does what he’s told, relaxes at Pamela’s command, until there’s nothing but calm, warm darkness again.

            “You’re safe here,” Pamela whispers. “You’re safe, Dean. There’s someone who’s been taken from you, someone you love. Someone who wants to be remembered.”

            Dean feels himself nod mechanically.

            “Good,” Pamela says. “You can feel it, can’t you? Through your dreams, in the back of your mind. You still see him.”

            “Yes,” Dean whispers.

            “Good,” Pamela says again. “I’m going to ask you again, Dean, and I want you to answer from deep within. Who have you forgotten?”

            Dean’s throat works around the name like it’s stuck in his throat, choking him.

            “Dean, who are you forgetting?”

            “Cas,” Dean whispers, the name unfamiliar in his mouth, but his lips shape around the word like he’s said it a thousand times.

            “Good,” Pamela says, much more gently. “Who raised you from hell, Dean?”

            “Cas,” Dean says again, much more shakily, and he can feel his eyes welling up even in his sleep-state—the blue ghost without a name, reaching out to him.

            “What do you remember about Cas?”

            It hurts too much to remember, but the wall’s slowly crumbling and eroding, brick by brick—Dean gets disjointed flashes of blue eyes, a stubbled jaw, rumpled trenchcoat, the smell of the open sky, dark tangled hair, soft smiles, soft looks, soft touches—he sees the face of the man he saw in the church, he sees sparks flying in a barn and a bloody coat in his clenched hands.

            It comes back to him in a sharp rush, a memory, his _last_ memory that’s too vivid to ignore. It’s him, Sam and Cas, watching golden patches of light spill out of a blue wall in huge ocean-like crests. They’d found a source of some type, a chink in the armor that Cas had hunted down, they were here on a hunt—Dean remembers now, the hunt. Sam is backing up and yelling, running for the exit, Dean’s grabbing at Cas’ trenchcoat and pulling him back, away from the wall of light.

            Cas turns to look at him, and yells over the whirling roar of the energy spilling out, “Dean, I can stop this. My grace can—”

            “Don’t you dare,” Dean hears himself shout back. “Don’t you fucking dare, Cas—”

            “I’m sorry,” Cas is whispering—Dean can’t hear it, just sees the familiar shape of the words on Cas’ mouth, Cas looking at him with huge sad eyes, and he turns; Dean reaches out for him again but misses his sleeve by mere inches. Cas slips straight through his grasp.

            “ _Cas_!” he hears himself scream, hears the word wrenched out of him as Cas runs full-pelt toward the energy and with a quick twist of his shoulders, throws himself inside of it.

            Dean jolts up into consciousness, choking on his breath, Pamela’s hands on him and her voice saying in a controlled but urgent voice, “Dean, Dean, calm down, Dean.”

            “Wha—” Dean tries to say, his head spinning with images burned into his brain, images of Cas vanishing, Cas disappearing, Cas, Cas—

            “You’re having a reaction,” Pamela says, her hands not holding him, Dean realizes, but anchoring him, keeping his body from thrashing. “I said the memories would take a toll and your mind is trying to recover under the strain.”

            “Where is he?” Dean whispers, and his throat feels raw. His ears are ringing, and he realizes suddenly that he’d been yelling.

            Pamela just stares back at him, her eyes filled with sadness. “I don’t know, Dean. I don’t know where he is.”

            “He has to be somewhere,” Dean says, feeling his whole body trembling. “I can’t—I can’t just remember him if he’s not alive, somewhere out there—”

            “Dean,” Pamela says in a soothing voice, like adults always did when he was a kid and they had bad news. “This is what I warned you about. You’ve got the memories but no solution. Unfortunately, this is your burden to carry now.”

            “It was supposed to stop,” Dean whispers in remembrance, and the rest of the memories are flooding back to him now in painful, detailed bursts, Cas’ last night, Cas cradled in his arms, Cas kissing his hair, the taste of Cas’ skin on his lips. He closes his eyes, the acute pain of it suddenly overwhelming. “The grace was supposed to stop the Darkness from happening. Why hasn’t it stopped?”

            “Maybe it didn’t work.”

            “It _had_ to have worked,” Dean says. “He can’t—he can’t be gone for nothing.”

            “What I would suspect,” Pamela says, raising her eyebrows, “is…well. This force is unbending events and people throughout all of history. If the grace, as you say, really is enough to cancel out the force, it’ll take awhile for it to catch up and disperse throughout time. It has to happen everywhere first before the force can stop.”

            “What, so you’re saying I might be dead before it even starts working?” Dean snaps, his voice pitching up a decibel. “Before people stop vanishing off the fucking earth like they never existed?”

            “That’s what I’m saying,” Pamela says with a heavy nod. “I’m sorry I don’t have better news, kiddo.”

            “When the grace does work, if it does kick in,” Dean says, his mind racing, “will everything revert to what it was? Will all the people who vanished come back, or will things stay the same but the Darkness will just stop happening?”

            “I don’t have answers for you, Dean,” Pamela says with a slow shake of her head. “I’m sorry. I know barely any more about this thing than you do. I can see it both here and beyond the veil. That’s the only input I can really offer.”

            “I wasn’t supposed to remember him,” Dean says, staring at Pamela. He can’t stop shaking. “I wasn’t supposed to remember him, or any of this. How is it I remember? How is it even possible?”

            Pamela smiles, a sad, knowing curve of her lips, and she reaches out to gently place her hands on top of Dean’s.

            “I’ve seen a lot of truly crazy shit in my life, in my profession,” Pamela says. “I’ve seen the dead, I’ve seen the beyond as clearly as I’ve seen the living. I’ve seen the forces of nature up close and personal. And one thing people always ask me is what I’ve seen that truly blows my mind, that makes me question everything. People laugh when I give the answer, but here it is.” She leans forward like she’s about to whisper a secret, her eyes locked with Dean’s. “Love is the most powerful force in the universe. It’s more powerful than the universe itself, even. I’ve seen the pure force of it alone firsthand, like a shockwave that shakes even the most distant of dimensions.” She gives Dean’s knee a soft pat, gathering his hands in hers. “That, Dean, is what amazes me the most.”

\--

            For a long time, Dean sits in the Impala with his head pressed to the steering wheel, trying to calm the fuck down, trying to wade through the mind-numbing sensations and details that are pouring back into him—some of which he’s pretty sure he hasn’t even technically lived yet. His brain feels like it’s on overload, trying to shut down, to block out the memories pouring in.

            The more he remembers, the more sick he feels—in the other universe, the universe that he’s somehow lost, Cas was alive, Sam was alive. Another terrifying, horrible thing he’s quickly realizing, as more comes back to him: he was in love with this guy, this Cas, head over heels for him, so in love with him that it dumbfounds him to even think about. He can see that through the filter of his memories, clear as anything. He’s in love with someone who doesn’t exist anymore. The feeling guts him, claws open his chest, making it hard to breathe.

            _I can’t guarantee it won’t cause you more pain,_ he remembers Pamela saying, and he clenches his eyes shut against the tears he can feel smarting there. His hitched, broken breathing fills the empty space of the Impala.

            He suddenly remembers, in a vivid flash, lying next to Cas after he’d sold his soul for Sam, holding onto him, Cas stroking a hand through his hair. The words of the conversation come back to him, resounding audibly in his ears.

_Can you hear prayers in hell? Like if I pray, if I talk to you, will you hear it?_

_I won’t be here by then. But if you do remember me, somewhere, I’ll hear you. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that the universe at its worst can do nothing to keep me from you._

            “Cas,” Dean says out loud through gritted teeth, and the word seems explosive in the silence of the car. “Castiel. I know you can hear me somewhere. If you can hear my voice, know this, loud and clear: I’m gonna find you. I swear to God. If it’s the last thing I do.”


	16. Chapter 16

            Dean travels the country for a bit. He’s not really keeping track of time, so he can’t be sure if it’s weeks or months crawling by—he stops sleeping, so it gets harder to discern the difference between day and night. All of it to Dean is potential driving time, potential hours squandered that he could be finding Sam and Cas.

            He’s not really keeping track of direction, either. He guides the Impala within the parameters of north, south, east, west—Atlantic to Pacific, and then over again. All the roads start to look the same after a while, all the cars flashing past him like they’re on a movie loop, so he can’t say where he’s been, or when, or how many times. His only stops are the ones that he deems necessary—gas stations to refuel the Impala, and psychic leads on Cas and the Darkness that he’d written down in a neat, bulleted list before he’d started out. Twenty-one names and addresses of mediums across the U.S., tucked in his glove compartment.

            He lets his beard grow out; doesn’t really mean to, but the next thing he knows he’s on the road one day and he reaches one hand absently to rub across his face and he gets a whole palmful of bristles. _Weird,_ he thinks, and pulls over an hour later at a motel on the side of the highway, the paneling on the sides of the building peeling. The neon red “VACANCY” sign is wicking on and off, so Dean can’t be sure if the place has actually got space, but he figures they might, given the parking lot’s completely devoid of life.

            He checks into a single room, first room he’s stayed at in weeks, if he can remember right. Usually he camps in the back of the Impala, when he does need to sleep. He’s not sure how it’s possible, but his bones seem to deflect the cold nowadays, like he’s gotten immune to temperature. He doesn’t really sleep, though; doesn’t eat. Like he’s the once-living carcass of a human, a zombie with a pulse. It would be supernatural by any other standard, but Dean thinks it might just be grief, plain and simple—grief and mania, shuttling him back and forth like he’s a human pinball machine.

            He drops his duffel at the foot of the bed and goes to the bathroom mirror, the glass crushed in the upper corner like someone had taken a bat to it. He wipes away the grime on the glass with one hand and stares at his reflection, blinks in the startling, empty few seconds of unfamiliarity. He raises one hand slowly, just to watch the reflection mimic the movement, just to make sure it’s him.

            He runs a hand down the side of his face. His cheeks are sunken, gaunt—almost skeletal-looking. He can’t remember the last time he put something consumable in his body, but he thinks it might’ve been a bag of Funyuns at a gas station. A full-grown beard fills in the hollows of his cheeks, stubble sprouting all along the column of his throat, unkempt and crooked in places from lack of care. His eyes are rheumy, pink, exhausted—like he’s diseased. Which maybe he is, just not of the physical kind. His hair has grown out over his ears now, curling around the back of his neck. The puffy shadows under his eyes render him alien-looking.

            He looks like something straight out of a biblical myth, like a man cursed to wander the desert for years without sustenance.

            Dean turns away from the mirror, a swell of nausea building in the pit of his chest.

            He doesn’t really remember getting into bed, but the next thing he knows, he’s jolting awake on the tail-end of a nightmare, already fading from conscious memory, leaving just a phantom trace of impression—his skull’s ringing like a firework had gone off nearby, like someone had been screaming in his head. He squints painfully and blinks into the wan sunlight trickling through the windows.

            He gets up and he strips off his clothes for the first time in weeks, and something in him recoils feebly at the realization that he can count his ribs now, pressing prominently through the skin of his torso. Whatever he’d had of a beer-gut, which Sam would sometimes tease him about, is long-gone.

            Dean showers. He lets the water soak into his hair, shuts his eyes as the spray scalds against his bare skin. He watches the dirt and muck sliding from his skin, swirling in gray streaks around the drain, and he meticulously cleans the dirt out from under each of his fingernails. He rubs soap through his beard, behind his ears, between his toes. Every inch of him feels filthy, tainted, so he takes care not to leave any part of himself unclean.

            When he steps out of the shower, it feels like a layer of skin’s been peeled off—like every nerve opening in his body’s been split open, leaving him raw and sensitive. He manages to hunt down a razor, shaving cream and an old pair of barber scissors in his duffel, dull at best, but they’ll do the job. He shaves off his beard strip by careful strip, lightly tapping the razor against the side of the sink so clumps of excess hair vanish down the drain. Usually, he and Sam would cut each other’s hair on the road, only when it got annoying to manage and in the way of the job, but Dean’s practically an expert now in self-barbering. He cuts his own hair, the damp, downy tufts raining down on the yellowed tile floor.

            When he looks in the mirror, the haunted, animal look is still there, clinging to the shadows of his face, but he recognizes himself. He looks like _Dean_ again, just Dean.

            He gets dressed then, shoving his dirty clothes deep to the bottom of his bag. His new clothes don’t exactly smell like cotton candy and roses, kinda musty and stale, but he suspects his old ones were starting to seriously smell, and he’d rather not attract a cloud of flies where he goes.

            After that, he sleeps more—time seems to stand still inside the small room, and when he cracks open his eyes again, there’s still daylight outside. He’s not sure if he slept a short enough period to beat the sunset, or a long enough time to make the next day, but he supposes it doesn’t really matter, either way.

            He packs up his belongings and he checks out. The newspaper on the front desk reads that it’s April 14, 2011—last he’d checked in on the date, it’d been late January. He tries not to think about what that means. He heads outside to the Impala, who’s caked with dirt from lack of upkeep. He clambers into the front seat, shuts the door, and starts onto the road again.


	17. Chapter 17

**One month later**

            For a long while, Dean sits in the Impala on the street and stares up the walkway to the familiar house, fidgeting uncomfortably in the leather seat. The street looks distantly familiar too, even though Dean hasn’t been here in years. He hasn’t been anywhere near Lawrence since Stull—even being within driving distance of it is making nausea bubble up in his chest, like he’s about to lose his lunch. But he’d gotten the call he’d been waiting for and this…this was worth the trip to Lawrence.

            After a few more moments of steeling his nerves, Dean clambers out of the car and shuts the front door with a squeak of the hinges. He crosses the walkway and when he gets to the front door, he raises his fist to knock, but of course, she already knows he’s coming—the door swings right open, and familiar, dark eyes peer up at him. Dean lowers his fist.

            “Hey, Missouri,” he says, doing his best to put on a brave grin. “Remember me?”

            “How could I forget you, Dean Winchester?” Missouri Moseley says, and ushers him right in.

\---

            It’s kind of creepy being back in Missouri’s house, after all this time—the familiar beat up patterned couch underneath him is the same. Even the smell, like faint incense and rosemary, is exactly the same; like this house hadn’t been on ground zero for the apocalypse, like Dean can pretend everything’s the same as the last time he was here, Sam by his side, teasing him.

            Missouri winces as she sits across from him before she slowly opens her eyes, peering at him sympathetically. “You look positively awful, boy.”

            Dean smiles, dryly. “Not lookin’ too shabby yourself, Missouri.”

            Missouri wags her head and makes three clicking noises with her tongue on the roof of her mouth. “How is it you’re still standing upright?”

            Dean doesn’t say anything, waiting for an elaboration.

            Missouri smiles sadly then, deepening the creases around her eyes. She _does_ look older since the last time Dean saw her, more tired. “You’ve got the whole world on your shoulders. Must hurt to even get up in the morning.”

            “Every day,” Dean agrees quietly. “But that’s why I’m here. You know that, right?”

            Missouri nods, just a slow bob of her head.

            “You can see them?” Dean says, his voice dropping into a whisper. “Them…alive, in the other reality?”

            A pause, and then Missouri nods again.

            It’s the affirmation he’s been hunting for, waiting for. Dean’s breath is punched out of him, and his shoulders sag. He laces his fingers together.

            “What you’re doing, Dean,” Missouri says, a warning in her voice, “it’s…it’s dangerous. It has the potential to uproot the forces of nature.”

            “You know where he is,” Dean says. “That’s what you said on the phone. You know where…” Dean’s throat works, fighting against vocalizing the name. “Cas is.”

            There’s always something difficult about saying his name, beyond even emotional reasons—it’s like he’s physically struggling to choke out the syllables, like he’s not meant to speak them. Sometimes, he just lays in bed and mouths the word to himself over and over again, _Cas, Cas, Cas,_ just so he won’t forget again, wondering if somewhere, Cas can hear him.

            “Not exactly,” Missouri says hesitantly. Dean’s heart crashes, and he feels this sick surge of anger through him, like Missouri had tricked him or something—until she continues, “I can see where you last saw him in the other reality. It’s the point from which all the other shockwaves radiate, almost like the moment’s frozen in time. Almost like a temporal hinging point—whatever Castiel did, jumping into that, it sent some kinda proverbial earthquake throughout all of time. It’s no wonder it’s got you so affected, given you were on site for the blast.”

            “Tell me something,” Dean says, keeping his gaze lowered, unable to look Missouri in the eye. “Is there…is there any chance I can get him back?”

            Missouri pauses for a moment before she speaks again, her voice hushed. “I don’t know, Dean. I’ve never experienced anything like this before—no one has. It’s uncharted territory. Even we psychics are stumped over it.”

            Dean nods, unsurprised but still unable to mask his disappointment. He’d been expecting the answer—it’s the same one he’s been getting for weeks now.

            “We can see the Darkness, but nothing else,” Missouri says. “We can see the flickering ghosts of other realities. We know _something_ happened. We just don’t know what.”

            Again, par for the course. Dean’s met up with dozens of psychics across the country over the last month; only a fraction of them even knew who Sam or Cas were, and the others all gave him the same response about everything else. The “we don’t know but it’s very bad” response.

            “Let me ask you something,” Missouri says, seeming to read the trajectory of his thoughts. “Have you thought about… _not_ going through with this? Leaving this alone and just getting on with your life?”

            “I’ve thought about it,” Dean says, keeping his eyes trained on the patterns in the carpet. “It’d probably be the safest thing to do. Maybe even the right thing to do. But I just…I’ve got it, all of it, locked up here.” He taps a finger twice to his temple. “Every…every memory of him, everything. I can’t—I can’t live knowing that somehow, it never happened, that he doesn’t exist somewhere.” He finally looks up to meet Missouri’s curious eyes, his shoulders bowed inward. “I just can’t, Missouri. I’ve tried and I can’t.”

            “You’re in love with him,” Missouri says softly. “I’ll be.”

            Dean doesn’t say a thing to deny it, just gives a wry, tired shake of his head and says, “Psychic senses tellin’ you that?”

            “No,” Missouri says with a small smile. “Don’t need to be a psychic for that. It’s written all over your face, boy.”

            Dean’s throat works around a swallow, and he gives a quick nod and drops his eyes again. “I can’t…I can’t piece everything together that happened. I’ve only got these flashes of memories of Cas. I can’t remember everything that happens in between, in this other universe—I can’t make the puzzle fit together. So I don’t know what all’s gonna change, if I try to bring him back. But I don’t think I can live with myself if I don’t at least try.”

            “Have you thought about the effect this will have on other people?” Missouri asks, not accusingly—when Dean meets her gaze again, her eyes are non-judgmental, simply inquisitive.

            “Yeah, I have,” Dean says with a nod. “’Course I have. But this thing in heaven…” He makes a vague hand gesture toward the ceiling. “We need a game-changer, and this fits the bill. This Raphael guy—he’s gonna put the apocalypse back if I don’t do something fast.”

            “That’s your job, is it?” Missouri says.

            “It’s someone’s,” Dean says with a grim smile. “I sure as hell don’t see anyone else stepping up to bat.”

            Missouri nods, rubbing her palms over her jeans. “I’m just telling you, Dean,” she says. “This has the potential to change…everything. Everything we know, this entire reality, this entire life you’ve lived. It’ll all change. Some people won’t exist anymore—the ones who’ve been born in _this_ reality, you’re killing them.”

            “I’m setting things right,” Dean says firmly, ignoring the uncomfortable twist in his gut at Missouri voicing his worries. “I can’t afford to sit back and count the casualties. If I get Cas back, it’ll set things right. The people who are supposed to exist will exist again.”

            “You don’t know that for sure,” Missouri says, probably reading his thoughts. “And even if it’s true, who are you to say _that_ reality is the right reality, Dean? Are you God?”

            “No,” Dean snaps, feeling uncomfortable with Missouri’s inquiries. “It’s just—”

            “People will die if you switch the timelines,” Missouri says, raising her eyebrows. “People alive right now won’t exist anymore. I’m just telling you the truth.”

            “People are dyin’ anyway,” Dean retorts. “People are gonna die if Raphael gets his hands on Michael and Lucifer and roasts the planet. The people who existed in _my_ reality, the _real_ reality, the reality where Sam and Cas are alive? They deserve to exist too.”

            “I’m not trying to make you feel guilty, Dean,” Missouri says, her voice gentle. “I’m only asking that you consider, _really_ consider, the gravity of the choice you’re making. It’s universe-altering.”

            “Kind of on my résumé, Missouri.”

            “Smart-ass,” Missouri says with a disapproving click of her tongue, and Dean almost smiles.

            “So you know where?” Dean asks, clasping and unclasping his hands together. “You know where this…Darkness is?”

            Missouri purses her lips, looking like she’s debating on giving an answer before she responds. “From what I can tell, when you three went up against this thing, it was because you’d found a point where it’s the most vulnerable—a location where you could directly access it. It’s a difficult thing. It takes extra-psychic senses, so I’m guessing you had help.”

            “Cas,” Dean agrees, remembering.

            “It’s here,” Missouri says, lowering her voice, like there’s a risk they’ll be overheard.

            Dean’s heart skips two beats. “Here? In _Lawrence?_ ”

            “Here in Lawrence,” Missouri confirms. “And I’ll give you three guesses as to where.”

            For a second Dean stares at her uncomprehendingly, wracking his brain to pore through the vague, fuzzy memory he’s got of the moment Cas disappeared, the instance he’s played over and over again. The nagging familiarity of it’s been driving him insane, and suddenly, with a click of clarity, he gets why.

            “Our house,” Dean says, suddenly feeling like it’s hard to breathe. “It’s in our old house.”

            Missouri gives a small, subtle nod, fastening her eyes to Dean, like she’s afraid to answer him out loud.

            “Holy shit,” Dean says, and the memory seems to take on a new light—the blue wall, the wall the light had been pouring out of, where Cas had vanished—it’s starting to look, in this framework, like Sam’s old nursery, maybe his old room. “ _Why?_ Of all places, why there?”

            “True evil entered that house, Dean,” Missouri says. “That kind of darkness leaves a residue beyond psychological or emotional. It’s got the potential to alter the landscape of the psychic world.”

            Dean’s palms start to stick together, clammy with sweat. “Why are you telling me? If you think switching the timelines is gonna be a bad thing?”

            Missouri’s mouth curves up in a small, half-crescent smile. “I’m trusting you to make the right choices, Dean.” She leans forward, keeping their gazes locked. “I’m trusting you to make this right.”

\--

            Dean’s heart is pounding like a jackhammer the entire way to his old house, the route that he still knows by heart. He can’t help but look around at the colorful, small houses on the way there and wonder just how much is gonna change, if he goes through with this. How much will be erased or recreated.

            He can’t tell if he’s being selfish—he can’t lie to himself that one of his main incentives of doing this is to get Cas and Sam back, if he can. Is he being selfish? Some deeper, more instinctual part of him is _telling_ him this is the right thing to do, to realign reality with the way it once was—like the universe he’s currently living in is all a lie, an illusion ready to go up in smoke.

            At one point, he has to pull over because he feels physically sick—he presses his forehead to the steering wheel and takes deep, shuddering breaths, Cas’ eyes like blue lanterns behind his closed eyes. Already, he can feel the memories of him fading, like the way any other memory would—he’s starting to forget the sound of Cas’ voice. He forgot his smell a long time ago. He’s forgetting pieces and pieces, sensations that he’s still trying desperately to cling to.

            There’s no guarantee this will even work, Dean reminds himself bleakly, feeling his breaths come faster. Probably even less than a real chance that this will work.

            But he wouldn’t be Dean fucking Winchester if he didn’t go down without at least trying—trying to make this right, dying to try making this right.

            He puts the car back in drive and keeps his eyes focused on one spot on the road, keeps his gaze fixed there while the Impala takes him home.

\--

            The Winchester house is completely quiet when Dean pulls up—quiet, vacant, almost nothing like he remembers. It’s fallen into disrepair, the grass of the lawn grown long and weedy and uncut. The white paint is peeling and chipping on the sides of the house; two of the address numbers have fallen from over the front door. There’s a star-shaped, jagged hole in one of the windows, baseball-sized. The “FOR SALE” sign in the front yard is bent completely sideways, warped and crinkled by the wear of rain and time.

            Something deep in Dean aches hard at the sight of his old family home in ruin, but he can’t be too surprised, given the circumstances. If there really is something in there like Missouri’s said, most normal families would probably wise up and get the hell out of dodge.

            Although the street is completely silent, almost eerily silent, Dean feels like he’s walking into a warzone.

            He gets out of the car with his pulse sprinting and walks slowly up to the front door, rubbing his hands on his jeans. The house creaks and groans with the gusts of wind, some of the windows shaking, almost like it’s a living, breathing thing.

Dean carefully reaches out and takes the doorknob in his hand—there’s a small electric shock that zings through him, humming in his veins, and he takes a deep breath and pushes it open.

            He doesn’t know if he expected the house to swallow him up the second he set foot in, but the whole place is dead silent as he walks through, the only sound the groan of old floorboards under his shoes and the quiet skitter of rat paws. It’s slowly coming back to him now, being here—he walks to the staircase on instinct, something calling him up the stairs like a siren song. He drags his hand along the old, peeling railing, gathering up a cloud of thick, graying dust in his hand as he goes. The stairs creak under his steps and as he goes up, he can feel it all—the suffocating, festering feeling of flames that night he’d carried Sam out, the spritz of electricity under his skin, the same kind of static that would radiate off Cas when he’d appear and reappear in and out of Dean’s life, so long ago—a lifetime ago, a lifetime that had never happened. It feels like a star’s length away now.

            He mounts the stairs and walks down the hallway, his shoes clomping on the hardwood floors, headed toward Sam’s old room. Whatever is there is calling him louder now, singing in his ears, in his blood. He can’t be sure whether it’s good or evil, the force calling him, but his body moves forward like a man possessed.

            When he pushes on the door to Sam’s old room and steps in, he feels the palpable shift in atmosphere, like the rumble before an earthquake, like the house is waking up, recognizing his presence.

            He closes his eyes and he thinks of Cas at the forefront of his brain, he thinks of Sam, of everything that he had in the old life that’s been taken from him, and the hum grows louder in his ears, buzzing like a swarm of bees. He wants to antagonize this thing, wants to call it forward to accuse it of everything he’s lost, of every person, every memory it had stolen from him.

            The hum grows louder, almost deafening, and Dean’s eyes snap open when he hears a loud, tearing sound—right before his eyes, the wall splits open on a jagged seam of light, golden energy spilling out and onto the floor, flooding the whole room with heat so stifling that it’s hard to breathe. Something deep in Dean, something tired and ancient, wants him to walk into it, to let himself burst into flame like a bug flying into an electric lamp, but he keeps his feet rooted firmly in place, forcing himself to stay still as the light fills up the whole room, the whole house.

            “This is the Darkness, huh?” he hears himself say. “Lamer than I expected.”

            Almost like it can hear him, the vein of light gapes open wider, spitting, sending out coils of temporal energy. Dean’s whole skin is vibrating, his bones shaking with the sheer power of it.

            “I’ve come for Cas,” he says, feeling his lip curl up in a snarl. “I know you have him.”

            The tide of light rolls and fluctuates, seeming to breathe heat straight into his face.

            Dean doesn’t walk forward as much as he wades, light flooding around his feet and knees, jarring him straight down to his core like he’s strapped to a generator—it makes it nearly impossible to breathe, to even see in front of him, but he keeps going until he’s reached the very center of the room. His eyes are tearing up and streaming with the brightness and heat of it as he stares ahead, right into what feels like the heart of the universe.

            On some deep instinct, Dean’s not sure what, he reaches out a hand—he reaches a hand straight into the gut of it, his body feeling like it’s going up into flame, and in that instant, at that moment of contact, everything comes rushing back to him—every moment, every second of the other life he’d lost; him and Cas for the first time in the barn, him and Cas standing across from each other at Stull, him and Cas fighting in the dark at Bobby’s house. Cas walking into a lake with his arms outstretched, the smell of blood and mud on Cas in purgatory as he’d pulled him close, the feeling of Cas’ hand on his face in the crypt, Cas freshly human and staring at him sideways in the Impala, the feeling of Cas’ soothing, cool hand laid over the Mark on his arm, calming him. He can the remember the touch of Cas in hell, the sear of it straight through his soul—he can remember the touch of Cas as a human, warm and heady and solid, soft on his skin—he can remember the touch of Cas’ grace, pouring through him, filling him up so he can’t speak, he can’t breathe.

            Dean’s whole body is shaking wildly with the energy coursing through him, the colossal force of it, but he keeps his hand outstretched as he lights up, like he’s sticking his arm straight into the mouth of an electric socket.

            One, two, three seconds pass, and then the feeling of a hand takes his, gripping him tight.

            Dean doesn’t think; the second he feels the physical touch, he just grabs on and pulls, pulls for every single ounce that he’s worth, and as he does, he can feel the room shifting around him, the massive waves of energy creating and uncreating, bending and unbending, flexing and unflexing.

            None of it matters—it’s all white noise, background sound. He pulls, keeps pulling until there’s a solid warmth in his arms, the feeling of a body pressed against his, the light around him starting to flare even brighter like dying stars before it fades out, casting the room into shadows. Dean closes his eyes, holding on as tight as he can while the whole house shakes at the force of the energy being sucked back in, retracting into the wall—like it’s retreating. He holds on to the weight in his arms and breathes, keeps his eyes closed until every last drop of energy in the room’s been sucked clean, until there’s nothing but absolute, dead quiet, save for the sound of two people breathing, mingled together.

            Dean opens his eyes.

            Cas is still holding on to him, his blue eyes wide and dazed and his fingers gripping into Dean’s shoulders hard enough to hurt, and Dean almost sways at the sight of him.

            “Oh my God,” he hears himself say, and Cas has barely got the words out, something along the lines of, “Dean? What happened?” before Dean grabs him by the jaw and kisses him until he can’t breathe.

            After a startled, frozen moment, Cas returns the kiss with equal force and enthusiasm, both his hands knotted in Dean’s collar, tugging him in to fill every ounce of empty space between them. Dean finally pulls away when he loses the rest of his oxygen, his head spinning, completely breathless as he rests his forehead against Cas’, his hand sliding up to cup the back of his neck.

            “Never do that again,” he whispers, so close that he can feel Cas’ warm, staggered breath against his mouth.

            “Okay,” Cas says just as quietly, panting just as hard. “Okay.”

            Dean’s suddenly overcome by this wave of bone-deep exhaustion, so strong that he sinks to his knees, Cas following after him so they’re both kneeling, still clinging on to each other. Dean’s hanging on so tight that he’s sure he has to be hurting him, but Cas doesn’t protest, just keeps holding him close, waiting until their breaths even out.

            “What happened?” Cas asks, his voice faint and uneven. “All I remember—all I remember from before is that last night, and then—now I’m—I’m here.”

            “I remembered,” Dean says. “I remembered you, all of it.”

            Cas pulls back at that, his eyes wide with awe, and he gently brings up a hand to splay his fingers along Dean’s jaw.

            “That’s impossible,” he says. “That—that should’ve been impossible.”

            “Remember that thing you said?” Dean asks, tugging him back in. Even a few inches feels too far away from Cas right now. “About us defying the universe or whatever?”

            “Yeah,” Cas says, his nose gliding against Dean’s. Dean breathes in, memorizing every single sensation so he can’t forget.

            “I guess we’re not meant to be apart,” Dean says.

            “I’ve always known that,” Cas replies, and Dean laughs into the next kiss, giddy and incredulous, incredulous that he’s allowed this, _this_.

            Out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees a figure stirring, hears a loud groan, and he jerks away from Cas at once in surprise. It’s Sam, groggily trying to pull himself into a sitting position, looking around with a completely dazed expression.

            Dean’s voice almost completely abandons him. “Sam?”

            “What the hell?” Sam says, squinting to readjust to the light pouring in from the windows, then refocusing in surprise on Dean and Cas clinging on to each other before he looks around the rest of the room in dawning recognition. “Are we in _Lawrence_? What the fuck happened?”

            “Sam,” Dean says, hardly daring to ask the next question. “Who’s Mo Tanner?”

            “ _What_?” Sam says, completely gobsmacked.

            “Just…just answer the question.”

            “I—I think he was some bartender at Stanford,” Sam says, his eyebrows scrunching in confusion. “What the fuck does that have to do with _anything_ , Dean?”

            Dean leaves Cas’ side just for a moment, just to drop down next to Sam and pull him tight into his arms, so tight that Sam groans weakly in protest.

            “Dean,” Sam protests, patting his back twice, “can’t breathe,” and Dean pulls back, looking back over to Cas, who’s still staring at him in complete wonder.

            “All that time,” Dean says, looking at Cas. “You kept coming back to me all that time, even though I didn’t know who you were.”

            Cas nods, a smile crinkling his eyes. “I missed you.”

            “Can someone please explain what the hell’s going on?” Sam complains, then says, in a completely flat voice, “Okay,” when Dean gets up and crosses to Cas to kiss him again. Cas’ mouth chases his eagerly, his head tilted up as Dean half-kneels back down to touch his face.

            “How can I still remember?” Dean asks breathlessly when they pull away. “All that happened, if it never actually happened?”

            “It technically didn’t happen,” Cas says. “The timeline where we met in hell is what _technically_ happened in this reality. I don’t know why you can remember…everything else.” His voice drops, his fingers dragging lightly over Dean’s bottom lip. “Maybe you’re meant to remember.”

            Dean drops completely to his knees so he can be level with Cas. “Is the Darkness gone? Did it work?”

            “I think so,” Cas whispers, closing his eyes as though he’s concentrating. “I gave my grace over and the two forces out-powered each other. It was like…it was like watching a supernova explode into being.”

            “So we did it?” Dean whispers, scarcely daring to believe the words as he says them. “We beat it?”

            “We beat it,” Cas says, taking Dean’s hand and squeezing.

            “So you’re graceless. You’re human,” Dean says, something strange and tight closing up his throat—sadness for Cas, and something much more treacherous and deeply rooted. Like some kind of reluctant hope, hope he’s never let himself have before.

            Cas meets his eyes and nods wordlessly.

            “Remember that thing you said?” Dean says, clasping Cas’ fingers tight. “That thing you said about…”

            “Waking up everyday with you,” Cas says, taking the words he couldn’t say right out of his mouth, the blue in his eyes seeming even more vibrant while he’s looking straight at Dean. “I remember.”

            “If you still…I mean,” Dean says, then closes his eyes with exhaustion, suddenly overwhelmed by the heaviness of all that’s happened, the sheer gravity of it. “It’s open, if you want it. If you’ll have me.”

            Cas leans forward to kiss Dean’s nose, running his fingers through the back of Dean’s hair.

            “Yes,” he says, and doesn’t say anything else, just keeps his eyes closed, his forehead pressed to Dean’s again.

            “Okay,” Dean says, taking a deep breath. It feels like the breath of a new life, a new beginning. “Okay.”

            “Besides,” Cas says with a smile, intertwining their hands together and squeezing tight. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”


	18. Chapter 18

** Epilogue **

            When Dean wakes up, it’s to a sea of blankets and pillows swathed around him and the hot, firm line of a body against his, like he’s an actual human burrito wrapped inside another giant burrito. Dean groans pitifully and squirms under the stifling heat, biting down on a tiny smile when Cas’ leg, draped over his hip, tightens to draw him in closer.

            “Cas,” Dean says, wriggling to free his limbs from mummification. “What did I say about the friggin’ pillow forts?”

            Cas doesn’t answer for a moment, so long that Dean thinks he might still be asleep, but his answer comes a moment later, gravelly and grouchy. “I’m nesting.”

            “Yeah, literally.” Dean presses an affectionate kiss to Cas’ forehead as Cas noses under his jaw, his warm breath snuffling in the hollow of his neck. “Is that some kinda post-angel thing?”

            Dean feels Cas scowl against his neck. “No.”

            “It totally is.”

            Cas rolls over, Dean giving a soft whine of protest as the extra body heat instantly gets sapped away, and after some maneuvering, Cas manages to disentangle himself from the four (seriously, _four_?) sets of sheets and standing with a long, sinuous stretch of his bare shoulders. Dean plants his cheek on the back of his hand and watches sleepily, reaching out to fist his other hand in the back of Cas’ sweatpants before he can make a move for the kitchen.

            “Dean,” Cas complains as Dean swivels him around, but the protest isn’t real, not actually.

            Dean tugs him in by the drawstring of his sweatpants, grinning up at him. “Don’t act like you don’t want this.”

            Cas yields to Dean pulling him in _way_ too easy, just climbs back into bed and curls on top of Dean with another grunt. “I don’t.”

            Dean’s hands drift down to Cas’ ass and squeeze. “So do.”

            “I’m not that easy, Dean.”

            “Tell that to the tent in your pants, Commander.”

            Cas nips at the hinge of his jaw lightly in admonishment. “I’ve told you not to call me that.”

            “You love it,” Dean whispers, and smiles into the next kiss.

            They haven’t had as many problems with angel infestations, not since he and Sam had warded the bunker semi-permanently against them—the only time the sigils get broken is intentionally and to allow occasional visitors in to see Cas, like Hannah or Inias. The one time Dean had left the place unwarded by accident, a curious angel had shown up in Dean’s bedroom with Cas sitting on his cock and, well.

            Not that it _hadn’t_ been incredible, watching Cas stoically give commands with Dean’s dick up his ass—Dean had been shaking under him in silent hysterics, the wayward angel’s horrified face somehow increasing the hilarity of the whole thing. The angel had fled within the first couple minutes, blotchy-faced with mortification, but not before Dean had given Cas’ ass a loud, purposeful slap. Just to, you know, stake his claim.

            “Wipe that look off your face,” Cas says sullenly; he knows exactly, by Dean’s shit-eating grin, what he’s thinking about.

            “Your siblings could stand to be a little more scarred.”

            “They’ve done much, but I don’t think they deserve _that,_ ” Cas says, a grudging smile pulling up the corner of his mouth. “Although it may make them reconsider trying to wrangle me back into their good graces, so to speak.”

            “Heaven can’t have you,” Dean says with a fake growl, rolling to pin Cas’ shoulders to the mattress.

            Cas quirks an eyebrow with amusement, his hands running down Dean’s sides. “I think they might know by now that I’m a lost cause.”

            “Hey, their loss,” Dean says, lowering his arms gently so he hovers just barely over Cas, keeping their bodies separated by a bare seam. “My gain.”

            “Or mine,” Cas murmurs, much too sincerely. He turns up the inside of Dean’s wrist to kiss his palm, then up the soft skin of his inner forearm, his mouth ghosting over the sensitive skin that had once been branded by the Mark.

            It’s not like he and Cas don’t have issues, Dean thinks, shuddering under the phantom sensation, that quiet burn in his blood, under his skin that never seems to recede. They still fight. God knows they’re still unpacking baggage, old and new. Cas is still recovering from gracelessness and multiple other horrors; Dean’s still fighting nightmares in his sleep from the Mark of Cain, from demonhood, purgatory, hell, all the other crock he’s got shelved inside him. The night terrors are a little easier to combat when he wakes up to Cas shushing him rather than thrashing in his bed alone, but the point still stands. It’s hard to shake hell.

            “What are you thinking?” Cas murmurs, kissing the inner crease of his elbow, seeming to sense his thoughts are racing.

            “I’m just,” Dean says, swallowing and closing his eyes. “I can’t believe we’re really allowed this. You know? I keep feeling like I’m going to wake up.”

            “Me too,” Cas says, pulling away to stare down at Dean with his eyebrows knitted together. “But then I do, and it’s with you. And every morning it gets a little more believable.”

            “Yeah,” Dean breathes, but he must still look troubled because Cas thumbs gently at the frown-line between his eyebrows, then runs the pad of it over the deepening creases in the corners of his eyes.

            “It’s our time to rest,” Cas says, his voice gentle but firm. “We deserve that, after everything.”

            “Yeah,” Dean says in a whisper, angling his jaw up to kiss Cas, his eyes open. “We do.”

            They stay in bed for the rest of the day. The world, outside the bunker, goes on.


End file.
